The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
by 2wingo
Summary: The Watsons have recently moved from Santa Rosa to Seattle. Next door, at 221B Baker Street, lives a family of British diplomats, whose very unusual son, Sherlock, makes a distinct impression upon the Watsons' daughter, Jane. Uberfic
1. Prologue

_**(A/N: Well, it's been a long time in the coming, but I've finally decided to start a long running fanfiction series: **__**The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes**__**. Please Read & Review.)**_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any related characters. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's descendants do. I also do not own Arsène Lupin. He is owned by Maurice Leblanc's descendants.

* * *

**Changes to the Continuity**

1.) The adventures will take place in Seattle, Washington, not London, England.

2.) The main characters will be teenagers, not adults.

3.) John Watson will instead be Jane Watson, a teenage girl aspiring to be a doctor.

4.) While still cold and distant toward most females, Sherlock will not be the asexual woman-hater that he was in Doyle's books.

5.) Inspector G. Lestrade, while still a reoccurring character, will not be a police detective.

* * *

**Main Characters**

1.) **Sherlock Holmes:** A 16-year-old professional detective, Sherlock is highly intelligent and possesses a vast knowledge of many subjects, both common and esoteric, practical and theoretical. He is highly athletic and is an expert mixed martial artist and _traceur_ (practitioner of Parkour). He is also the founder and leader of the Baker Street Irregulars. In spite of his pride in being British, some of Holmes' habits are distinctly Bohemian. Likeness of Julian McMahon (circa 2005, _à la_ Victor Von Doom).

2.) **Mycroft Holmes:** Sherlock's 19-year-old brother, Mycroft is even more intelligent than Sherlock and possesses even greater deductive abilities that are supplemented by his eidetic memory. However, he is a bit of a slacker by nature and generally is unwilling to put forth the physical effort necessary to bring the case to conclusion, leaving fieldwork to Sherlock. He operates a business over the Internet, and rarely leaves his parents' home. Likeness of Danny Strong (circa 2006, _à la_ Doyle McMasters).

3.) **Jane Watson:** A 16-year-old girl, Jane has recently moved to Baker Street with her parents, and resides in house 221A. Jane is a smart girl who aspires to be a doctor, and is fairly comely for her age. While Jane is normally a quiet, easygoing girl, she has a hot temper that lies dormant in her subconscious, generally revealing itself only when a friend or loved one is in danger. Likeness of Kristin Kreuk (circa 2002, _à la_ Lana Lang).

4.) **Mr. & Mrs. Holmes:** The parents of Sherlock and Mycroft. Mr. Holmes is the former British governor of Hong Kong, and is now semi-retired and living with his family at 221B Baker Street in Seattle, Washington. Mrs. Holmes is a former athlete, and was a respected member of the British Olympic swimming team. She is also descended from the French painter Claude Joseph Vernet. Likeness of Alec Baldwin (circa 1994, _à la _Lamont Cranston) & Penelope Ann Miller (circa 1994, _à la _Margo Lane), respectively.

5.) **Mr. & Mrs. Watson:** The parents of Jane Watson. Mr. Watson works in customer relations at Cray Inc., while Mrs. Watson works at an undefined position for Jones Soda Co. Likeness of Tom Hanks (circa 2006 _à la _Robert Langdon) & Patricia Richardson (circa 1993, _à la_ Jill Taylor), respectively.

6.) **James Moriarty:** A mathematical genius and chess prodigy, Moriarty controls a vast, yet subtle, crime ring in Seattle and Tacoma, with activities ranging from prositution to extortion to drug dealing. First impression of Moriarty is generally that of a rude, arrogant street punk, but this is just a façade to hide his staggering intellect and sophistication. Likeness of Milo Ventimiglia (circa 2003, _à la_ Jess Mariano).

7.) **Sam Wiggins:** Sam is Holmes' lieutenant in the Baker Street Irregulars, and generally delivers Holmes' orders to the rest of the group. Likeness of Sébastien Foucan (circa 2006).

8.) **The Baker Street Irregulars:** A crime-fighting team established by Holmes to act as his eyes and ears throughout Seattle. Most of the Irregulars are extreme sports enthusiasts, and while all have been trained in Parkour by Holmes, they usually get around using inline skates, skateboards, kick scooters, and motocross bikes. Wiggins himself uses an ATV.

9.) **Gideon Lestrade:** Lestrade is a friend of the Holmes' family, and operates a gym in Seattle, devoted to the teaching of mixed martial arts. He often assists Holmes' investigations by going to bars, strip clubs, and other such places where the underage Irregulars cannot go to gather information and listen to gossip. Likeness of Chris Crudelli (circa 2008).

10.) **Irene Adler:** Sherlock's ex-girlfriend, Irene ended their relationship because of Holmes' aloof, introverted nature and lack of passion toward her. She is a brilliant actress and exceedingly beautiful. Sherlock never quite got over the pain of losing Irene (who he truly cared for), and as a result became colder than ever. Likeness of Bianca Beauchamp (circa 2000).

11.) **Arsène Lupin:** A self-styled "gentleman thief," this young Frenchman has earned a notorious reputation across mainland Europe and committed many famous burglaries. He is possessed of a suave, debonair, and courtly manner that makes him highly charismatic, even to his enemies. Lupin, though lacking some of his contemporaries' natural genius, is well read, capable of speaking both French and English, and is an expert in his field. He is also a skilled fighter, utilizing Bartitsu, Capoeira, and Free-Running. Likeness of Johnny Depp (circa 1995, _à la_ Don Juan DeMarco).

12.) **Marty Morstan:** Marty attends the same high school as Sherlock and Jane, and is captain of the football team, playing Quarterback. While not lacking in female attention, Marty doesn't have a steady girlfriend. He has recently begun to notice Jane Watson, however. Likeness of Matt Czuchry (circa 2006, _à la_ Logan Huntzberger).

* * *

_**(A/N: Instead of adapting existing Sherlock Holmes stories to a 21**__**st**__** Century setting, I'll be coming up with my own mysteries. Any and all ideas will be greatly appreciated. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	2. Keeping up with the Holmes'

_**(A/N: I've changed my mind. I MAY update some of A.C. Doyle's mysteries to a contemporary setting if the mood strikes me. Imagine that Sherlock looks a bit like Julian McMahon (circa 2005), Watson like Kristin Kreuk (circa 2004), Moriarty like Milo Ventimiglia (circa 2003), and Mycroft like Danny Strong (circa 2006). Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

"We're here," said Mrs. Watson, pulling the car into their new driveway. The Watson family had recently moved from Santa Rosa to Seattle, now residing in the suburbs at 221A Baker Street.

"Wow," said Jane, the Watsons' only child, "It's a lot colder than back in California." Jane had been somewhat less than thrilled about the move, but her parents had been firm.

"You'll get used to it," said her father, carrying a box inside, "And you'll feel better about it when you start school on Monday. You love school." The darling of Jane's desires was to be a doctor, and she had been working hard toward her dream almost her entire life.

"I guess you're right," said Jane with a sigh, "I think I'll go take a walk around the neighborhood." Slipping on her jacket, she started down the road toward a park that she had seen on the way.

* * *

The day was actually turning out quite well. Jane met some girls who went to the local high school, and was hitting it off well with them. Suddenly, she heard the sound of someone grunting, as if from physical exertion. Looking around the bend, she saw a bunch of guys in a circle, with one guy beating on another in the center of it.

"Hey!" screamed Jane, running toward them, "leave him alone!" She charged at the bully in the center and kicked him in the abdomen. To her shock, though, the one that was being bullied suddenly pushed her to the ground.

"I didn't need your help," he snapped, rearing back a fist as if to punch her.

"ENOUGH!" said an imperial voice from the front of the alley. Jane turned to see a tall boy, about her age, with black hair and steely, gray eyes. He bent down to help Jane up.

"You misunderstood what was happening, here," said the boy with a faint British accent, "My associates were merely undergoing combat training."

"But he started beating that other kid when he was down," said Jane, still angry over what had happened.

"Well, then he should have been more careful, Miss Watson," said the British boy, his voice more impatient, "in the real world, to lose is to die." Jane, so shocked that he had known her name, just stood there in silence as they all walked away.

* * *

Around 6:00, having been invited to dinner by their new neighbors, the Watsons went next door.

"Hello, you must be the Watsons," said the young man who opened the door for them, "I am Mycroft Holmes. Welcome to our home."

Mrs. Holmes came down the stairs and said, "So good of you to come! It's been so long since anyone's moved into the neighbor." Mr. Holmes joined them as they sat down.

"I'm afraid that I'm a little out of practice, playing host," said Mr. Holmes, "Ever since Hong Kong was returned to the Chinese 11 years ago, my days as a governor are over."

"You were the Vice-Admiral of Hong Kong?" asked Mr. Watson.

Mr. Holmes nodded and said, "Yes. Mycroft and Sherlock made the adjustment from Chinese to American ways very well, for children."

"Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Watson.

"Our youngest at 16," said Mrs. Holmes, "He usually eats in his room, when he's not working on a particularly intense case."

"Sherlock is a private detective," said Mr. Holmes, "and it is one of his peculiarities that in his more intense moments, he permits himself no food. I've known him to presume upon his iron strength until he has fainted from pure inanition."

"At his age?" asked Jane, quite surprised.

"Both of our sons are singularly brilliant," said Mr. Holmes, "Sherlock was moved up two grades in primary school, and Mycroft was moved three."

"But, our similarities end there," interjected Mycroft, blushing with embarrassment, "Sherlock's energy and ambition far surpass my own. Besides, he is the athlete of the family. His talents at observation and deduction are surpassed by none."

"Except your own," said a voice from the doorway, "You do not give yourself enough credit, Mycroft." Jane turned to see who was speaking and fell silent when she saw that it was the boy who held off his group earlier that day.

"Sherlock," said Mr. Holmes, "you're late, again."

"My apologies, Father," said Sherlock, "My training with Lestrade and the Irregulars ran longer than I had anticipated." He sat down at the table and shook hands with the Watsons.

"Your parents tell us that you're quite the detective," said Mrs. Watson. Sherlock didn't seem to have heard her, as he was staring at them intensely.

Finally, Sherlock said, "Mr. Watson, you work in computers, you and Mrs. Watson have been married for more than 16 years, and you are a Freemason. Mrs. Watson, you have recently sent yours and your husband's wedding rings out to be cleaned, you were a fan of KISS in your younger years, and you are left-handed. And you, Jane, are an aspiring medical student, have some knowledge of the self-defense art known as 'Model Mugging,' and have recently menstruated."

For a minute, they all sat in shocked silence, wondering how in the world he had known these things. As if reading their minds, he replied, "Mr. Watson. I noticed when I shook your hand that the tan on your ring-finger was quite pronounced, indicating that you had worn a ring there for no less than 15 years. The calluses on your fingertips suggest that you do a great deal of typing. You are also wearing a very small pin on the lapel of your shirt, with the Square and Compasses embossed upon it (which is against the rules of your order, I believe). Mrs. Watson, I noticed that your ring-finger, like that of Mr. Watson, was deeply tanned in spite of being bare. The fact that neither of you seemed upset could only mean that the state of your rings was not a cause for concern, leading me to speculate that they are off your fingers by choice. And why else but to have them cleaned? You also have a tattoo, just below the neck line of your sweater, that I saw briefly. The face was that of 'Ace' Frehley, lead guitarist and vocalist for KISS. You held out your left hand to shake with, which is how I noticed that its muscles are more developed than those of your right."

"And what about me?" asked Jane, "And how did you know who I was earlier today?"

"The cuff on your sleeve has been sewn together with a Lambert stitch," replied Sherlock simply, "which only surgeons in are the habit of using. As it is very unlikely that you are a doctor, I can only come to the conclusion that you are preparing for a career in medicine. The way you attacked John with grace and élan suggests martial arts training, and the way you went directly for the weakest point in the male physiology screams of women's self-defense. Model Mugging being the most popular form these days, nothing could be simpler."

"And my period?" she asked quietly.

"The pheromone receptor gland in my nose," said Sherlock, "It became unusually active every time I was close enough to smell you, hence you were producing greater than normal amounts of hormones, hence you were either ovulating or found me extremely attractive. Considering that our first impression did not go particularly well, the former seemed a safer bet."

* * *

A week or so went by, and Sherlock and Jane found, to their mutual surprise, that they were becoming fast friends. Though they seemed an unlikely pair, in many ways they complemented each other. Watson's passionate and sometimes fiery personality complemented Holmes' cool stoicism. Whereas Holmes preferred to use his strength and toughness in battle, Watson was fast and agile.

The two often found themselves on long walks, deep in the discussion of such subjects as Philosophy and Popular Culture, which were among the few that Sherlock didn't make a habit of studying. Often, Jane would test Sherlock's deductive powers, expecting him to do something terribly clever, only to find how simply his deductions came to him.

"You are really making too large a production about my skills, Watson," said Holmes on one of their walks, "It is all a matter of using logic, reason, and the scientific method. From a drop of water, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagra never having seen or heard of one or the other."

"I read mystery novels all the time," said Jane, "but I've never met someone who could actually think like that. It's almost like you're Poe's Dupin." Holmes just chuckled acrimoniously.

"No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin," he observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends' thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour's silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine."

"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" Jane asked. "Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?"

Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in 24 hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might be made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid."

Sherlock stopped outside of a small studio and beckoned for Jane to follow him. It had the look and feel of a martial art dojo, and the tall man in the corner moved with power of a sensei.

"Lestrade," said Holmes to the sensei, "This is my new neighbor, Jane Watson. Watson, this is Gideon Lestrade, an unofficial member my Irregulars."

* * *

"Holmes," said Jane after they'd been walking for almost an hour, "it's getting kind of dark. Maybe we should turn back."

"Have no fear, Watson," said Sherlock, "This is one of the safest areas in the city." They had stopped in a small, wooded area of the city park. Holmes just stood there, as if waiting for something.

"Okay, Holmes, what are we waiting for?" asked Jane, getting annoyed.

Holmes simply said, "It's time."

Before Jane could ask him what that meant, the air was suddenly filled with the sound of rolling wheels and low-power engines. Jane looked around and saw that coming from all sides were a number of teenagers on skateboards, in-line skates, scooters, and bikes. Finally, coming up from behind was an ATV.

"I am glad that you are all here," said Holmes, the formality in his tone decreasing somewhat, "Your response to my summons was the best yet. I have called you all to introduce Jane Watson, my new neighbor. I wish to petition her addition to the Baker Street Irregulars."

Jane was momentarily speechless. He wanted her to join his group of detectives? But she had nowhere near his abilities. One of the Irregulars said as much. "Holmes, how do we know that she can be trusted?"

"I have spent considerable time with her, Jack," said Holmes, staring the Irregular right in the eye, "and I'm absolutely certain that she is not one of Moriarty's, if that is what you are implying."

"But since we are a team," said Holmes to the rest of the group, "I will put it to a vote: Do we allow Jane to become the first female Irregular and place her under my tutelage? All in favor."

A little more than half the group raised their hands, Holmes included.

"All opposed?" asked Holmes, lowering his gray eyes.

Fewer than half raised their hands. It was settled.

"Congratulations, Watson," said Holmes, "You are now a member of the Baker Street Irregulars."

* * *

_**(A/N: And so the adventures can finally begin. Please review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	3. The Adventure of the Speckled Band

_**(A/N: I've decided to work in 3 stages. Stage 1: I will rewrite Doyle's works directly into a modern context. Stage 2: I will take ideas from Doyle's stories and make them my own. Stage 3: I will write my own mysteries. This is a Stage 1 story. Please Read & Review.)**_

**The Adventure of the Speckled Band**

* * *

It was a cold autumn morning in Seattle, and the rain was falling hard. On this particular morning, the Holmes brothers, Sherlock and Mycroft, sat on the front porch of their house, watching whomever or whatever walked by.

"Ah," said Mycroft, sipping from a mug of hot coffee, "To anyone who wishes to study mankind this is the spot. Look at these two men who are coming towards us, for example."

"The billiard-marker and the other?" asked Sherlock. His drink of choice was Earl Grey tea.

"Precisely," said Mycroft, "What do you make of the other?"

"A soldier, I perceive," said Sherlock

"And very recently discharged," remarked Mycroft.

"Served in Iraq, I see."

"And a non-commissioned officer."

"Special Forces, I fancy," said Sherlock.

"And a widower."

"But with a child."

"Children, my dear boy, children."

"Surely," answered Sherlock, "it is not hard to say that a man with that bearing, expression of authority, and sun-baked skin is a soldier, is more than a private, and is not long from the Middle East."

"That he has not left the service long is shown by his still wearing his combat boots," observed Mycroft.

"He wears his headgear on one side, as is shown by the lighter skin on that side of his brow. Only a beret leaves such a tan, and what is another name for the American Special Forces but the Green Berets?"

"Then, of course," said Mycroft, "his complete mourning shows that he has lost someone very dear. The fact that he is doing his own shopping looks as though it were his wife. He has been buying things for children, you perceive. There is a rattle, which shows that one of them is very young. The wife probably died in childbed. The fact that he has a picture book under his arm shows that there is another child to be thought of."

Suddenly, Sherlock's private phone began to ring.

* * *

Meanwhile, next door to the Holmes', Jane Watson, Sherlock's friend and protégée, lay on her stomach in her bedroom, writing in her diary.

_I've only known the Holmes brothers for a few weeks, now, but we're getting along wonderfully. I can honestly say that I've never met a stranger pair. They're really smart, but a little out of sync with the rest of the world. Here is what I've managed to learn about Sherlock thus far:_

_**Knowledge of:**_

_1. Non-Sensational Literature. – Nil._

_2. Philosophy. – Nil._

_3. Astronomy. – Nil._

_4. Politics. – Feeble._

_5. Botany. – Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows little about practical gardening._

_6. Geology. – Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks, he has shown me splashes on his pants, and told me by their color and consistence what part of Seattle they came from._

_7. Chemistry. – Profound._

_8. Anatomy. – Accurate, but somewhat unsystematic._

_9. Sensational Literature. – Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in this century._

_10. Music. – Variable. Plays the viola well. Shows little interest in most contemporary artists._

_11. Is an expert mixed martial artist._

_12. Has a good, practical knowledge of American law._

_Mycroft is harder to classify. His brain seems to save every single piece of information that it receives on any subject, so who knows where his body of knowledge ends? He doesn't seem to be one of Sherlock's Baker Street Irregulars, thought I'm not surprised, as he doesn't seem to want to do anything with his life besides play the stock market online (how his equity continues to increase in this economy I will never know)._

The theme song from Peter Gunn began to play on her cellphone, signifying that Sherlock was calling. Picking it up, she answered, "Hello?"

"Watson," said Sherlock, "We have a case. Come over straight away."

* * *

Within minutes, Jane was seated on a comfortable chair in the Holmes' parlor. "So," she asked Sherlock, "where's the client?"

"I am expecting her in about four seconds. Ah, there she is now." There was a rapid knocking at the door, and Mrs. Holmes answered it, allowing a woman in her late 20's to enter. She removed a heavy overcoat, hat, and scarf and sat down.

"Good morning, madam," said Holmes cheerfully, "I am Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Jane Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mother has had the good sense to light a fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot tea, for I observe that you are shivering."

"It's not the cold that's making me shiver," said the woman quietly, moving closer to the fire.

"What, then?" asked Jane.

"Fear, Miss Watson. Terror." Jane could see it. Her face, though pretty and even, was haggard, and her hair was streaked with premature gray.

"You must not fear," said Sherlock soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right. I have no doubt. You have come in by subway this morning, I see."

"You know who I am?"

"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good ride on a bicycle, along heavy roads, before you reached the station."

The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at Holmes.

"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said Sherlock, smiling. "The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. The only vehicles which throw up mud in such a way are bicycles and turn-of-the-century dogcarts."

"That's right," said the woman, "I started from home before six, reached the station at 20 after, and came here by taxi. Mr. Holmes, you have to help me. I'll go insane if this continues, and no one can help me, not even my fiancé. I heard about you from Mrs. Farintosh, who was a client of yours. I can't repay you for your efforts right now, but as soon as I'm married in a few months, I'll be in control of my own income."

Holmes went over to his desk, removed a small black book, and read through it carefully.

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock, "the Farintosh case; it was concerned with the loss of an opal tiara. Before your time with me, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expense I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter."

"Unfortunately," replied the woman, "the very problem is that my fears are so vague. They depend on so many things that might or might not be trivial, and even my husband-to-be thinks I'm being nervous over nothing, even though he doesn't use those exact words. But I've heard that you know about the evil that lurks in the hearts of men. Any advice at all I'll gladly take."

"I am all attention, madam," said Holmes. The woman sipped her tea and began to tell her tale.

"My name is Helen Stoner, and I live with my stepfather, the last survivor of one of the oldest families of the Saxon aristocracy, The Roylotts, on the outskirts of Tacoma near Mount Rainier National Park."

Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," he said.

"The family used to be one of the richest in England, and the estates were huge. In the last century, however, several heirs were lazy and wasteful, with a gambler ruining them completely. The ancestral house, Stoke Moran, was all that was left until a few decades ago when it was crushed by a heavy mortgage. The last squire lived like an aristocrat in poverty. But his only son, my stepfather, Grimesby, decided that he had to do something with his life, so he got an advance from a relative and earned a medical degree. He came to America and started a large medical practice in New York City on only his professional skill and force of character. Unfortunately, he was driven almost insane with rage over a series of burglaries in his house and almost beat his butler to death. He was lucky to avoid capital punishment. As it was, he was in jail for no short amount of time and moved out to Washington, a morose and disappointed man."

Helen stopped while Mrs. Holmes refilled her tea.

"When Dr. Roylott was in New York, he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Lieutenant Stoner, who had died in Afghanistan driving out the Soviets. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only about five at the time of my mother's remarriage. She had a small fortune, which she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we lived with him, with the provision that a certain annual sum of money should go to each of us in the event that we were married. Shortly after we came to Washington, my mother died in a car crash. Dr. Roylott, having given up attempts to establish his practice on the West coast, then used the fortune to build us a fine house near the forest, which he modeled after his ancestral home of Stoke Moran. The remaining money was enough for all our needs and wants, and it seemed for a while that we would be happy."

She paused again to wipe her eyes.

"But a terrible change came over our stepfather around then. Instead of making friends and visiting our neighbors, who at first enjoyed the novelty of having an English nobleman in the neighborhood, he shut himself in the house and only came out to engage in vicious fights with anyone who crossed his path. You see, violent tempers, almost to the point of mania, were practically hereditary in my stepfather's family. Living in one of the most aggressive cities in the world as he had probably didn't help the matter. A string of terrible brawls took place, several of which ended up in small-claims court, until he became the terror of the town. Many people have taken to hurrying away when he approaches, because he is remarkably fit and strong for a man his age, and completely uncontrollable when he's angry. Just last week, he and a local mechanic had a disagreement, and Dr. Roylott tossed him through a wall. I had to pay a hefty settlement to keep him out of court. Now, he has no friends at all, except for a troupe of hobos and drifters. He lets them stay on our lawn in return for their hospitality, and he often just wanders away with them for weeks. He also loves Indian animals, which he has sent over. His baboon and cheetah are allowed to wander freely over the grounds, and people fear them almost as much as they do my stepfather."

"That's terrible," said Jane, obviously taken aback.

Helen nodded and continued. "As you can probably tell, Julia and I didn't have much in the way of happiness. We couldn't get any servants to stay with us, and for a long time we did all the cleaning and maintenance ourselves. Julia was only 30 when she died, but her hair was already starting to whiten, like mine."

"Your sister is dead, then?" asked Sherlock, adding another log to the fireplace.

"She died just two years ago," said Helen, "and it's actually about her death that I wanted to talk to you. As you can probably tell, it's not easy to meet people when you have a stepfather like Grimesby Roylott. We do, however, have an aunt on our mother's side, Honoria Westphail, who lives in Tacoma, and we went to visit her as often as we could. We all went for her annual Christmas party two years ago, and met a young man who was recently discharged from the Marines. They fell in love, and decided to get married. Our stepfather, though always treating the man rather brusquely, didn't object. But just a few weeks before the wedding, that terrible event happened."

Sherlock had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head resting on a cushion, but now he sat up straight and looked directly at their visitor.

"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

Helen replied, "Easy enough. I remember the whole thing so vividly. As I may or may not have already mentioned, the house is fairly large, and only one wing of it is actually occupied. Our bedrooms are on the ground floor. The first one belongs to Dr. Roylott, the second to my sister, and the third to me. There's no way of communicating between the three, but they all open into the same hall. Is this clear?"

"Perfectly so," said Jane.

"The windows," continued Helen, "open out onto the lawn. That night, our stepfather had gone to bed early, though we knew he wasn't sleeping, because Julia was bothered by the smell of the strong Cuban cigars he smokes. She came to my room and we talked about her wedding. She decided to go to bed around 11 o'clock, but she turned and looked back. 'Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard whistling late at night?' I told her that I hadn't, and she asked if it was possible that I might be whistling in my sleep. Again, I told her no. When I asked her why, she said, 'Because during the last few nights I've been hearing a low, clear whistle around three in the morning.' I suggested that it was the hobos, and she agreed. She then left and went to her room. I heard her lock the door."

"Indeed," said Holmes, "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?"

Helen said, "Always."

"And why?" asked Holmes.

"The cheetah and baboon come in and out of the house freely at night. We didn't feel safe unless the doors were locked."

"Quite so," said Holmes, "Pray proceed with your statements."

"Everything began to happen so fast," said Helen, turning even more pale, "I woke up, as if on instinct. Twins, as you know, are intrinsically linked, and I felt that something was wrong. My fears were confirmed when I heard a loud shriek of pain. I rushed to the door, hearing a low whistling sound, though I didn't think about it at the time. I also heard a crash, like something metal falling to the ground. My sister, who had crawled out into the hallway, was convulsing on the ground. I ran to her side, and she said, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!' Her eyes then rolled back into her head and she began her convulsions anew. I screamed for our stepfather, who dashed out of his room in his bathrobe. He told me to call for an ambulance while he ran for our first aid kit. But there was nothing that could be done. She died on her way to the hospital."

"One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

"That's what the police asked me at the morgue. I'm sure that heard something, but in a creaky house on a rainy night, I suppose that I could be wrong."

"Was your sister dressed?" asked Holmes.

"No," said Helen, "she was in her nightgown. In her right hand was the flashlight she usually kept in her room."

"Showing that she brandished her torch and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?"

"He investigated the case carefully, due to Dr. Roylott's notorious reputation, but nothing was found out. The door was locked from within, as was the window. The walls were very solid, and so were the floor and ceiling. She had a small fireplace in her room, but it was electric and no one could have come in through there. The only thing we do know is that my sister was alone when she was killed. There weren't even any signs of violence on her person."

"How about poison?" asked Watson.

Helen shook her head. "The doctors examined her for it, but the tests came back negative."

Sherlock thought for a minute, then said, "What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

"Pure nervous shock," said Helen.

"Were there vagrants in the plantation at the time?" asked Holmes.

"Yes," said Helen, "Almost always."

"Ah," said Holmes, "and what did you gather from this allusion to a band – a speckled band?"

"I'm not sure," said Helen, "Some of the hobos wear bandanas of that color, or maybe she was just rambling."

Holmes shook his head like a man who was far from being satisfied. "These are very deep waters. Pray go on with your narrative."

"My life has been lonelier than ever with Julia gone," said Helen, "but just last year, a very, very close childhood friend of mine asked me to get married and leave town with him. My stepfather raised no objections, and we're going to be married in the spring. A few days ago, though, my stepfather began having some repairs done that forced me to move into my sister's old room. Around three this morning, I heard it: that terrible, low octave whistle. I jumped up and switched on the lights, but I couldn't see anything. This was the last straw for me, though, so I hurried into my clothes, waited until it was a bit lighter out, then got on my bike and rode to the subway-station with incredible haste. I was hesitant about what to do, when I remembered your name and came straight to Seattle. If you can't help me, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what else I can do."

"You have done wisely," said Holmes. "But have you told me all?" Helen hesitated before answering

"Yes," she said finally, "all."

Holmes frowned and said, "Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

"What are you talking about?" she said uncertainly.

Holmes grabbed her arm and pulled back her sleeve. On her wrist were five livid bruises, the marks of four fingers and a thumb.

"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

Helen colored deeply and covered her wrist. "He's a hard man," she said, "and he sometimes forgets his own strength."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin on his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"This is a very deep business," he said at last, "There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decided upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran today, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

"As a matter of fact," said Helen, "he said he was coming to Seattle on business today. He'll probably be gone all day. We have a housekeeper now, but she's old and a little senile, so I can get her out of the way."

"Excellent," said Holmes, "You are not averse to the trip, Watson?"

"Nope," she replied cheerfully.

"Then we shall both come. What you are going to do yourself?"

"I think I would enjoy visiting the Space Needle, since I'm in town," said Helen, "I'll return by the 12 o'clock subway, and meet you there."

"Expect us early in the afternoon," said Holmes, "I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast with us?"

"No, I should be going," said Helen, smiling for the first time since arriving, "I feel much better since telling you my troubles. I look forward to seeing you both." She put on her coat, hat, and sunglasses, and left the room.

* * *

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock, leaning back in his chair.

Jane put her head in her hand and said, "It's awful, Holmes. It's just one great big sinister business."

Holmes nodded and said, "Dark enough and sinister enough."

"But if she's right in saying that the flooring and walls are solid, and that the door, window, and fireplace are inaccessible, then her sister had to have been alone."

"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles?" asked Holmes musingly, "and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

Jane shook her head and replied, "I don't know."

Holmes stood up and said, "When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of transients who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner head a metallic clang, which might have been caused by the window falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."

"But what did the bums do?" asked Jane.

"I cannot imagine," replied Holmes.

"I can think of counter-arguments for any theory," said Jane.

"And so can I. I it is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

Jane turned to see that Holmes' interjection came from the fact that the door had been suddenly pushed open, and that a huge man was standing in the doorway. He held a large cane in his hand. He was so tall that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and he was almost as wide. His face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one of the teenagers to the other, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes and his high, thin, fleshless nose gave him the resemblance of a bird of prey.

"Which of you is Holmes?" asked the man.

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said Sherlock quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly, "Pray take a seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind," he snarled, "My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is cooler than usual for this time of year," said Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?!" screamed the old man furiously.

"And the winter promises to be the coldest in years," continued Holmes imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" snarled Roylott, taking a step forward and shaking his cane. Jane discreetly gripped the pepper spray her parents made her carry.

"I know you, you scoundrel!" said Roylott, "I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

Holmes just smiled.

"Holmes the busybody!" said Roylott.

Holmes' smile broadened.

"Holmes, the police Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining, Doctor," said he, "when you go out close the door, for there is a decided draft."

"I will go when I have said my say," said Roylott, "Don't either of you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He strode over to the fireplace, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

"See that you keep yourselves out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling the twister poker into the fireplace he strode out of the house.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing, "I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke, he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

Watson stared at him in amazement as he sat down again and said, "Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall have breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to the courthouse, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter."

* * *

It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock returned from his excursion. He had a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures, which he showed to Jane.

"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he, "To determine its exact meaning I have obliged to work out the total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little short of $110,000 a year, is now, through the fall of agricultural prices, not more than $75,000. Each daughter can claim an income of about $2,500 yearly, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, Mycroft shall drive us down to the subway-station."

Holmes went over to a drawer and took out a royal blue handgun with a 4-inch barrel.

"I should be very obliged if you would slip my revolver into your purse," said Holmes, handing it to Jane, "A Colt Python is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a toothbrush are, I think, all that we need."

* * *

Watson called her parents from the tram and told them that she'd be spending the night in Tacoma on a case with Sherlock. They then took a cab to the outskirts of the city and spent the next half-hour walking through the forest. Finally, they saw Stoke Moran. Walking up the path, they were met by Helen Stoner, who was very happy to see them both.

"Good afternoon, Miss Stoner," said Sherlock, "You see that we have been as good as our word."

"I've been waiting for you," she said eagerly, shaking their hands, "Dr. Roylott is gone, and he won't be back from Seattle until late tonight."

"We had the pleasure of meeting him," said Jane, who quickly described their encounter, making Helen pale.

"He followed me?" she said.

"So it appears," replied Holmes.

"He's so cunning," said Helen, pacing back and forth, "I never know when I'm safe from that man. What's he going to say when he returns?"

"He must guard himself," said Holmes, "for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him, tonight. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

* * *

Holmes and Watson spent the next half-hour studying the windows of the rooms from the outside. At one point, Holmes turned to Helen and asked, "This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the center one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

"Exactly," said Helen, "But I'm currently sleeping in the middle room."

"Pending the alterations, as I understand," said Sherlock, "By the way, there does not seem to be any pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

"There weren't any," confirmed Helen, "I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room."

"Ah! That is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?"

"Yeah," said Helen, "but they're too small for anyone to get through."

"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar the window?"

Helen did so. Holmes tried everything he could think of to get through, but the window-latches were made of solid iron, as were the hinges. Finally, Holmes was forced to admit defeat.

"Hum!" said he, scratching his chin, "my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter."

It turned out to be a homey little room, done in the style of an old country-house. Holmes immediately sat down in a chair in the corner and began to silently take in every single detail of the apartment.

"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last, pointing to an old-fashioned bell-pull that hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying on the pillow.

"I think it goes to the housekeeper's room," said Helen.

"It looks newer than the rest of the room," said Watson, examining.

"It is," said Helen, "It was put in a few years ago."

"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?" said Holmes.

Helen shook her head and said, "I never heard of her using it. We usually got whatever we wanted for ourselves."

"Indeed," said Sherlock, standing, "it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor." Holmes went down on his hands and knees and began looking the floor over with a magnifying glass. After a while, he stood and scrutinized the walls. Suddenly, he grabbed the bell-pull and yanked it hard.

"Why, it is a dummy," said he.

"It won't ring?" asked Jane.

"No," he replied, "it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is."

Helen looked at it and said, "I never noticed that before."

"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

"That's also very recent," said Helen.

"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

"Yes," said Helen, "there were a few little changes done around then."

"They seem to have been of a most interesting character," said Holmes, "dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment."

Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger that his stepdaughter's, but just as plain. There was a bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, a chair, a small table, and a large iron safe.

"What's in here?" asked Holmes, tapping the safe.

"My stepfather's business papers," said Helen.

"Oh! You have seen inside, then?"

"Only once," she admitted, "some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?" asked Holmes.

"Of course not," said Helen.

"Well, look at this!" said Holmes, picking up a small saucer of milk which stood on top of the safe.

"No," said Helen, "we don't have a cat. Just the cheetah and baboon."

"Ah, yes of course!" said Sherlock, "Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He squatted down and examined the chair by the wall.

"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he. "Hello! Here is something interesting!"

He pointed to what appeared to be a small whip that was tied into a loop at the end. "What do you make of that, Watson?"

"It's just a common lash. I don't know why it's tied, though."

"That is not quite so common, is it?" said Holmes, "Ah, me! It's a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

* * *

Holmes' face was set into a grim visage as he paced up and down the lawn several times. Neither Jane nor Helen said anything, for fear of breaking his reverie. Finally, he roused himself.

"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

"Okay," said Helen.

"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance." Holmes said it in a voice that left no room for contradiction.

"I'm completely in your hands," said Helen.

"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room." Both Helena and Jane gave him a look.

"Yes, it must be so," said Holmes, "Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?" He pointed toward a small structure in the town.

"Technically it's a bed and breakfast, but yes," said Helen, "They call it the Crown."

"Very good," said Sherlock, "Your windows would be visible from there?"

Helen nodded. Sherlock continued with, "You must confine yourself to your room, on pretense of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put a candle there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night."

"Easily," said Helen.

"The rest you will leave to us."

"But what're you going to do?" asked Helen.

"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

"I think you've already made up your mind," said Jane, placing her hand upon Sherlock's shoulder.

"Perhaps," said Sherlock, "I have."

"Then for God's sake," said Helen, "tell me what happened to my sister."

But Sherlock shook his head and replied, "I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

"You can at least tell me if she really died from fright."

"No," said Sherlock, "I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you, for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us, our journey would be in vain. Goodbye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

* * *

Posing as an amorous young couple, Sherlock and Jane got a room in the bed and breakfast on the top floor. From their window, they could see for miles, including a perfect view of Stoke Moran. Around 8:30, they saw a 1966 Pontiac Tempest pull up to the main gates of Stoke Moran. The gates opened automatically, and when the car parked, Dr. Roylott stepped out and went into the house.

"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as they sat by the window, "I have really some scruples as to taking you there, tonight. There is a distinct element of danger."

"Will I be able to help you?" asked Jane, rather pointedly.

Sherlock replied, "Your presence might be invaluable."

"Then I'm coming," she said simply.

"It is very kind of you."

"You mentioned danger," said Jane, "You obviously saw more in the rooms than I did."

"No," said Holmes, "but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did."

"I didn't see anything remarkable except for the bell-rope."

"You saw the ventilator, too?"

"Yes, but I don't think it's that unusual to have an opening between rooms. It was so small that a rat probably couldn't get through it."

"I knew that we should find a ventilator," said Holmes, "before ever we came to Stoke Moran."

"Holmes, how could you possibly?" said Jane, completely unbelieving.

"Oh, yes," said Holmes, "I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

"But how could that be relevant?"

"Well," said Holmes, "there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does that not strike you?"

"I see that they might be connected," said Jane, "but I can't think of how."

"Did you observe anything peculiar about that bed?"

Jane shook her head.

"It was clamped to the floor," said Holmes, "Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?"

"I can't say that I have," replied Jane.

"The lady could not move her bed," said Holmes, standing and pacing about the room, "It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope – or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

"Holmes," said Jane, suddenly paling, "I think I know what you're getting at. We're only just in time to stop an awful crime."

"Subtle enough and horrible enough," said Holmes, "When a doctor does go wrong he is the first among criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness' sake, let us have a quiet drink and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful."

He reached into the small refrigerator and took out two sodas.

* * *

Around nine o'clock, the street lights all came on, and all was dark in the direction of Stoke Moran. Jane lay on the bed, resting quietly, while Holmes sat by the window, as wide awake as if he had just done a load of blow off of a supermodel's breasts. For two more hours, they stayed this way, until finally, at the stroke of eleven, a bright light shone through the middle window of Stoke Moran.

Holmes leapt up and shook Jane awake, saying, "That is our signal. It comes from the middle window."

The two of them left the small inn and hurried down the woodland path toward the house, their only guide being that single light from Helen's room. The walls surrounding the property were easy to bypass, and they were soon opening the window to climb inside. Suddenly, a figure like a small, deformed child leapt out of the bushes, turned to face them, then ran off on all fours into the night.

After a minute, Jane fearfully said, "Oh my God. Did you see that?"

Holmes himself had been momentarily shaken, and his hand had wrapped around Watson's wrist instinctively. However, he quickly let out a faint chuckle and said, "It is a nice household. That is the baboon." Without another word, they entered the house and removed their shoes.

Holmes cupped his hands around Watson's ear and said, "The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

Watson nodded to show that she'd heard and Holmes said, "We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

She nodded again. "Do not go to sleep," said Holmes, "Your very life may depend upon it. Have my pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair."

Watson took out the revolver and set it on the table next to her. Sherlock sat on the bed in the lotus position, with a flashlight next to him and a long stick that he'd taken from outside. They sat and waited, occasionally hearing the long, drawn-out whine of the cheetah. The clock struck 12, then one, two, and three as they waited with no end in sight. Suddenly, there was a flash of light from the ventilator. Watson strained her ears, but still couldn't hear anything. For about half an hour, she sat this way, with Holmes still motionless on the bed. Then, there was a sound – a very gentle, soothing sound, like steam coming from a kettle.

Holmes sprang up, snapped on the flashlight, and began striking the bell-pull with his stick. "You see it, Watson?" he yelled, "You see it?!" The sudden glare had blinded Jane, but she could see how pale Sherlock was. Suddenly, there came a horrible shriek from Dr. Roylott's room.

"It is all over," said Holmes solemnly, "Take the pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room."

The room was a strange light. The lights were all on, the safe was open, and Roylott sat in a chair, his head back and eyes open wide, with a look of sheer terror on his face. Around his forehead was a yellow band, covered in brown specks.

"The speckled band," said Jane quietly. She took a step forward, and the band reared itself, revealing the squat, diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

"Stay back!" said Holmes, holding his arm in front of Jane, "He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the police know what has happened."

Quickly, Holmes snatched up Roylott's lash, threw the noose around the reptile's neck, and carried it at arm's length to the safe, where he shut the door tightly.

"What was that?" asked Jane.

"A _samp-aderm_," said Holmes, "It is a hybrid between the Mexican Gila monster and the Indian cobra. A recently published herpetological report had indicated that such a mix is possible, but I have never heard of one actually being created."

* * *

Fearing legal action against Sherlock, Helen lied to the police and said that her stepfather had died playing with a dangerous pet. After seeing that she was taken to her aunt's to be looked after, Sherlock and Jane boarded the subway for the trip back to Seattle. After about five minutes, Jane noticed that Holmes was brooding.

"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion; which shows, Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the vagrants and the use of the word 'band,' which was used by the poor woman, no doubt to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her torch, were sufficient to put me upon the wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with the knowledge that the doctor was furnished with supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison for which there is no chemical test would occur to a clever and ruthless man like Roylott. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall victim."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Jane, "how could a whistle be used to call a snake? They're deaf."

"The thought had occurred to me, Watson," said Holmes, leaning back, "That was when I replaced the idea of a _snake_ with the idea of a _skink_. A lizard could have produced a fast-acting neurotoxin (like a snake), be able to climb through a narrow space (and up and down a rope), and hear the summons (as they have ears). The hybridized nature of the _samp-aderm_ would render its poison infinitely more deadly than either species alone."

"Amazing," said Jane, smiling and shaking her head.

"No, my dear Watson," said Sherlock with a smile of his own, "Elementary."

* * *

_**(A/N: Constructive Criticism only makes me better, so go ahead and be brutal. I can take it. Please review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	4. A Scandal in Bohemia

_**(A/N: Here we have a Stage 2 story. I've made a few important changes to the Prologue, so please reread chapter 1 before continuing here. Please Read & Review.)**_

**A Scandal in Bohemia**

* * *

Jane Watson came slowly to consciousness. Glancing at her clock, she saw that it was 4:15 a.m. She sat for a minute, wondering what had woken her, when she became aware of a soft, Celtic tune being played upon a stringed instrument. Rising from her bed, she looked out her window and saw a figure standing on the roof of the house next door, playing a viola. Opening the window, she saw that it was Sherlock, dressed in a deerstalker cap and an ulster.

"Holmes," she said with exasperation, "What are you doing?" She wished that this was the weirdest thing that she'd ever seen Holmes do, but sadly, it wasn't.

"I am making music, Watson," replied Sherlock, "My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation!"

Jane rolled her eyes and said, "In other words, you're bored because we haven't had a case since you helped the police bring in the Sheldon Park Pedophile."

Sherlock smiled and said, "Exactly." He quickly played _The Oriental Riff_ as if to emphasize his point.

"Well, find a quieter way to entertain yourself," said Jane, "We have to go to school in three hours." She then closed her window, flopped down upon the bed, and lay a pillow over her head as Sherlock struck up another frantic tune.

* * *

_Ugh_, thought Jane around lunch, _I could KILL Sherlock for keeping me awake all night._ She had barely made it though the first four periods without falling asleep, and she was fairly certain that she wouldn't make it through the next four if she didn't have some coffee now. With that in mind, she ran across the street to the Starbucks and ordered something that was positively lousy with caffeine and sugar. As she paid for her drink, she turned and accidently ran into someone.

"Sorry," he said as they bent down to pick up their respective stuff, "I didn't see you."

"It's okay," said Jane, "I – " She stopped when she looked up at him. He was cute; tall, athletic, with hay-colored hair and bright blue eyes. He wore a letterman's jacket that indicated that he was a football captain.

"You're that new girl, right?" he asked, "Jane Watson?"

Jane nodded and stuck out her hand, "Y-Yeah. My family just moved here from Santa Rosa. That's in California's wine country."

"Cool," said the boy, shaking her hand, "I'm Martin Morstan. My friends call me Marty."

"It's nice to meet you," said Jane, desperately trying not to appear flustered, "Um, I have to get back to class." She ran out quickly.

* * *

The day dragged on, but finally Jane was able to go home. She flopped down on the couch and switched on the TV, hoping to catch an hour or two of free time before her parents made her do her homework. Unfortunately, the theme from _Peter Gunn_ began playing on her cellphone. Sighing, she answered.

"_Watson_," said Holmes on the other end, "_We finally have a new case. One that may affect the course of European political history. Come over immediately._"

A few minutes later, she sat in the Holmes' living room.

"So what's the case, Holmes?" she asked, somewhat half-heartedly.

"I feel that it is better if we allow our client to explain," said Sherlock, "and I believe that he is here, now."

There was a sharp knock at the door. Jane looked out the window to see a black limousine surrounded by men in black suits. Holmes answered the door and invited in a tall man with hair that was obviously dyed.

"You had my note?" he asked with a deep, harsh voice and a strongly marked Eastern European accent. "I told you that I would call." He seemed almost uneasy having Jane within earshot.

"Pray, take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague, Miss Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honor of addressing?"

"You may address me as Johannes von Kramm, a Czech businessman," he said. He then pointed to Jane and continued, "I understand that this girl, your friend, is a woman of honor and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone."

Watson rose to leave, but Holmes caught her by the wrist and moved her back into her chair. "It is both, or none," said he, "You may say anything before this lady which you may say to me."

Von Kramm nodded and said, "Then I must begin by binding you both to absolute secrecy."

"I promise," said Holmes.

"Me too," said Jane.

"Now," said Holmes, a little too casually, "If, Mr. President, you would condescend to state your case, we should be glad to be of assistance."

The man jumped up from his chair, causing the men outside his limo to shift uncomfortable. He held them back with a gesture.

"Oh, yes," said Holmes, "You had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, current President and former Prime Minister of the Czech Republic."

The man sat down and removed his glasses, cleaning them with a silken handkerchief. Finally, he said, "Aside from the Prime Minister and our secret service, no one knows that I am in America. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes and leaning back in his chair.

"The facts are simple," said Klaus, "About a week ago, my granddaughter went missing while she was in Ostrava with her boyfriend. Four days ago, I received a letter from her, saying that she had run off to marry her boyfriend, that she was in the United States, and to not look for her."

"Why don't you just have the police find her?" asked Watson.

"Because she has in her possession a videotape containing very sensitive material," he said quietly, "a videotape which she threatens to send to every major newspaper and television station in the world. If this tape were to be brought to light, my career would be ruined forever."

"What is the nature of this tape?" asked Holmes, eyes wide open and now deadly serious.

Klaus took a deep breath and shakily said, "Almost a year ago, I . . . committed a sexual indiscretion with a young girl. At the time, it seemed a good idea to videotape the encounter so that I would always remember it."

"How young?" asked Jane, her stomach knotting with a combination of pity, anger, and disgust.

"The girl in question was 12 years old at the time," said Klaus, his head in his hands and his voice full of sincere shame and guilt, "And I in my late 60's."

Jane clapped her hands over her mouth to keep herself from gasping in horror. Even Holmes, normally a very stoical person, was forced to tighten his grip upon the arms of his chair before he said, "This is more than any mere indiscretion, Mr. President. You have compromised yourself to the very extreme of seriousness."

"So you see why the tape must be recovered," said Klaus, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief.

"But why would your own granddaughter release that tape?" asked Jane.

Klaus sighed again and said, "My granddaughter, Anna, suffers from a bizarre form of bipolar disorder. When Depressed, she is quiet, courteous, and loving. When Manic, she becomes angry, vengeful, and unreasonably vindictive. She almost killed a girl that she worked with simply because the sound of her laughing caused Anna pain."

He wiped his eyes again and continued, "She has been in and out of mental institutions for the last ten years of her life. Having a boyfriend seemed to bring to a state of normalcy, and the last year has passed without incident up until now."

"Tell me about the boyfriend." said Holmes.

"His name is Hussain Mustafa," said Klaus, "He is an Arab from the Quirian Emirates who lives in Prague. I am convinced that he is the one who persuaded my granddaughter to do these things."

"Why do you think that?" asked Holmes.

"Because Hussain belongs to a political party that is staunchly opposed to my own: the Czech Social Democratic Party. He knows how devoted I am to my family, and that I will risk everything to find my granddaughter. If this tape becomes public knowledge, I will be removed from office, allowing my greatest opponent, to succeed me as President in the upcoming election."

Holmes sat for almost five minutes, deep in thought, before he said, "Do you have any idea where your granddaughter is, Mr. President?"

"She is right here, in the Seattle/Tacoma area," said Klaus, "It was from here that the letter was addressed, and it is the perfect place for her. She has always loved the sea, and always said that when she got married she would move to a seaport. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that she is still here."

Sherlock stood and looked out the window. Finally, he said, "This will not be an easy matter, Mr. President. The expenses alone . . ."

In response, Klaus took out a huge wade of bills and through them on the coffee table. "Cost is no object," said Klaus, "I will cover all of your expenses and pay you whatever reward you should ask for. If you need to contact me, I will be staying at the Embassy Suites Hotel under the name Johannes von Kramm."

Klaus laid a photo of the girl on a nearby end table. He then put on his hat and left.

* * *

"So, let's look at our objectives," said Jane as they walked down the streets later that evening, "We have to find a Quirian Arab and a Czech girl with a chemical imbalance like a public pool, make sure that she doesn't send anyone a tape that proves her grandfather is a pedophile, and in return we get paid obscene amounts of money."

"That is the long and short of it, Watson," said Holmes, "But it may not be so difficult as it sounds. The Quirians are a very unique tribe, and there are very few of them outside of their own country. As for the girl, we know two important things: She is mentally unstable, and she loves the sea. It follows, then, that she will spend as much time as she can near it. I will inform the Irregulars to scan the coastline for this woman."

Sherlock withdrew his hand from his pocket, revealing the subminiature transistor short wave sending set pasted onto his right thumbnail. This ingenious device, invented by Mycroft, allowed Sherlock to send coded messages to the Baker Street Irregulars. Taping out the message in Morse, Holmes said, "Now, Watson, we wait."

* * *

Later that night, Jane sat on her kitchen counter, listening to her iPod, doing her homework. Suddenly, halfway through Amy Holland's _She's on Fire_, the phone rang.

Setting her headphones aside, Jane answered, "Hello, Watson residence."

A hunky voice at the other end said, "_Hi, Jane? It's Marty. We met at the coffee shop today_."

"Oh!" she said, her heart fluttering, "Yeah. Hi, Marty. How did you get my number?"

"_I checked the school's student directory. Listen_," he said, sounding unsure, "_I don't usually do this, but I was wondering if . . . maybe, we could . . . um . . ._"

"Marty," said Jane, "are you trying to ask me out?"

Marty laughed a little and said, "_I was trying to work up to that, but yes. If this is too soon, I COMPLETELY understand – _"

"I'd love to," said Jane, biting her lower lip gently, "Just name the time and place."

"_Uh,_" said Marty, "_How about Friday night, at 8:00? I know a little restaurant downtown._"

"Okay," said Jane, "I'll see you then." She hung up. For a minute she sat there, before she realized what had just happened: For the first time since she moved to Washington, she had a date.

* * *

"Watson!" yelled Sherlock, running up to her the next day at school, "We may be undone!" He thrust a note into her hand.

"_Dear Sherlock Holmes & Jane Watson_," read Jane aloud, "_I know that my grandfather has contacted you and hired you to find me. Well, good luck, because you won't, at least not before I send his tape to the news stations. I warned him not to look for me and Hussain. Now the whole world will know just how big a fucker he really is. Sincerely, Anna Blazek-Mustafa._"

Sherlock's face was now calm, but his eyes were blazing. "It is now even more urgent that we find her, Watson," he said, "Our client's reputation is at stake!" He snatched the paper from her hand and began reading it again.

"Watson," he said, not looking up, "Please call President Klaus and ask if his granddaughter's hands are in the habit of shaking. Meet me at my house after school." With that, he hurried off.

* * *

When Jane got to Sherlock's house, she found that he was still agitated, but this time in a pleasant way.

"Our quarry has greatly erred, Watson," said Sherlock, typing at his computer, "I have had time to analyze the letter, and I've determined that the paper was soiled in several places by salt water, which follows that it was written near, or possibly on, the sea."

"She could be anywhere this half of North America, then," said Jane.

"True," said Sherlock, "but in one corner of the paper, there was a speck of tern guano. I had Mycroft run a test on the DNA, and it was a subspecies native only to Seattle. The tern in question fed heavily upon sardines and other small fish that consumed a peculiar kind of algae, one that only grows near the peninsula of West Seattle in Puget Sound."

"But that leaves us with three or four neighborhoods to search," said Jane, "and we've got less than three days. Oh, and President Ormstein said that Anna's hands were always as steady as a rock."

"You see, Watson," said Holmes, holding up the letter, "the writing is somewhat jerky. As the girl in question is of steady hands, she must have been on some sort of boat at the time it was written. It would too dangerous for her to be seen in town, so she must be on a boat that possesses the necessities of life, i.e., a houseboat."

"I'm not following you, Holmes," said Jane, sitting down, "How does that help us? There are hundreds, maybe thousands of houseboats in West Seattle. We could never search them all!"

Suddenly, Holmes' sending set began to blink, indicating that he was receiving a message. Quickly, he wirelessly synced it to the computer and read the message:

_Holmes Stop_

_Suspicious houseboat in channel Stop_

_Between Queen Anne and Alki Stop_

_Hasn't left in days Stop_

_Contains Arab and Blonde Stop_

_Come out and investigate Stop_

"That is it!" yelled Holmes, jumping up, "They are at Alki Point! It is the perfect place for such a woman. Come Watson. We must go!"

* * *

A few hours later, when darkness fell, Holmes stopped his boat so he and Jane could don their drysuits.

"Be extremely careful, Watson," said Holmes, placing his hand upon her shoulder, "We do not know how dangerous these people may be."

"I'll be careful," she said, adjusting her air tank.

They dove into the cold water and swam toward the boat. Within minutes, they were there. Quietly, Sherlock removed his SCUBA gear and flippers and disappeared into the boat. Minutes passed, and the lights suddenly flickered. Jane was afraid that they would have to make hasty retreat, but Sherlock came out and said, "Come inside, Watson."

She did, and saw Anna and Hussain sitting at a small table.

"You are as intelligent as they say," said Hussain, _sotto voce_, "to have found us so quickly."

"It was more due to good help and luck," said Holmes, "but it is sufficient that you have been found. All we want is the tape, Mr. Mustafa."

"We cannot give it up," said Anna, looking pale and sickly, "It is the only thing preventing my grandfather from following us."

"Why are you so determined to get away from your grandfather?" asked Jane, sitting down next to Anna.

"I am tired of living like the child of a head of state," said Anna, simply, "I'm tired of the spotlight. I just want to live peacefully and have children and live a normal life with Hussain."

"Be that as it may," said Holmes, "your grandfather has engaged our services to regain that videotape. I am sorry, Mrs. Blazek-Mustafa, but I must have it."

Hussain was about to protest, but Anna went over to a drawer and took out a tape. She handed it to Sherlock and said, "Please, give it to him and tell him to be content. We will leave at dawn's first light."

* * *

The next day, Ormstein came to Holmes' house right on schedule.

"Welcome, Mr. President," said Holmes, cheerfully, "Our investigations yielded results; your tape is here." He tossed it to Ormstein, who promptly smashed it.

"I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes," he said, bubbly with gratitude, "And you too, Miss Watson."

"Sorry to say," said Holmes, "but we were unable to stop them from leaving. We have no idea where they have gone now."

"I understand," said Ormstein, "With the tape once again in my hands, I can search for her officially."

* * *

**A Few Days Later**

Marty's car pulled up to the front of Jane's house. The date was shaky in the beginning. He kept stuttering, she couldn't keep her hands still, and they were both so nervous that they kept dropping things. But around the middle of the movie, both had loosened up and had a great time.

"I had fun, tonight," said Jan, smoothing out the lap of her green tank dress.

"I did too," said Marty, "Hey, Jane? Can I ask you something?" She nodded in reply with a little smile.

"You always hang out with Sherlock Holmes," he said, "Is he really as weird as people think he is?"

"Weirder, I'm afraid," said Jane, "I think it's just because he's so far removed from regular people. Which is probably why he's a senior, even though he's our age."

A fast-paced viola tune began to flood the night air.

"And that would be him," said Jane, indicating the second-floor window of the next house.

"I saw him in gym once," said Marty, "Guy could do pushups like a machine. I still can't figure out where a guy as thin as he is keeps all that strength."

They both laughed for a minute, then Jane got out of the car and closed the door.

"Thanks for a nice evening," she said, leaning through the open window, "We should do it again sometime."

Marty was about to nod when Jane leaned in suddenly and kissed him. She then pulled away and said, "Sorry, was that too forward?"

"Oh, no, no," said Marty, "I was trying to get the courage to do it, myself."

"Well, see you at school on Monday," said Jane as she walked up the drive way and went inside. She turned and gave him a small wave before she closed the door.

Next door, high above the two young lovers, Sherlock watched from his window. He honestly wasn't sure how he felt about it. On the one hand, a romantic relationship could jeopardize her effectiveness by distracting her while in the field. But on the other, she was his friend, and he wanted her to be happy. Besides, Morstan wasn't that bad, as football players went, and Jane could definitely do worse.

Sherlock sighed and sat down in his chair, staring at the dying embers in his fireplace. He picked up his viola and began to play Maurice Jarre's _Lara's Theme_.

* * *

_**(A/N: Was the ending a little weak? I think it's a little weak. Be honest. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	5. The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

_**(A/N: A Stage 1 story. And just in time for Christmas, too. I feel that I should explain something. The reason that Jane doesn't have half the dialogue that Sherlock does is because in the original stories, they were narrated by Watson, so there was little reason for him to speak. Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

**The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle**

It was December 24, and it was an ice-cold morning in Seattle, Washington. The snow was falling lightly, and the mercury threatened to drop well below zero by nightfall. In the gated residential community of Broadmoor, Jane Watson went next door to wish her neighbor and best friend, Sherlock Holmes, the compliments of the season. When she entered his house, she found that he was lounging on the couch in a purple robe and blue slippers. On the angle of a nearby chair was an old, rather ill-used derby. On the seat of the chair were a magnifying glass and a pair of forceps, which suggested that Holmes was studying the hat.

"Am I disturbing you?" asked Jane, "'cause I can always come back."

"Not at all," said Holmes, beckoning her closer, "I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one, but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction."

Jane sat in an armchair in front of the fireplace and warmed her hands. "The hat," she said finally, "Is it a clue to our next case? Maybe the solution to a mysterious crime that'll lead to a prosecution?"

"No, no. No crime," said Holmes, laughing, "Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have over half a million human beings all jostling each other within the space of less than 100 square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such."

"Tell me about it," said Jane, "Three of our last six cases didn't even involve a crime on anyone's part."

"Precisely," replied Holmes, "You allude to our attempt to recover the Václav Klaus tape, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"

"That kid whose clothes are all either too big or too small and works at that fancy hotel?"

Holmes nodded. "It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It's his hat?"

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived two days ago, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, being roasted by Peterson's mother. The facts are these: about four o'clock on the 22nd, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the streetlight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."

"Which he returned to their owner?" asked Watson, accepting a cup of hot chocolate from the Holmes' housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson.

"My dear girl," said Holmes, "there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs. Henry Smith' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. S.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Smiths, and some hundreds of Henry Smiths in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

"Then what did Peterson do?"

"He brought 'round both hat and goose to me the next morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

"Was there an ad in the paper?" asked Jane.

"No."

"Any clue as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"

"Precisely, Watson."

"You're kidding. What do you see on the hat?"

"Here is my lens," said Holmes, handing Jane his magnifying glass, "You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

Jane took it in her hands and looked it over carefully. It was a typical black bowler hat, round and hard, and much worse for the wear. The lining was red silk, but it had been discolored. There wasn't a maker's name, but as Holmes had said, the initials "H.S." were scrawled on one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat securer, but the elastic was missing. It was also cracked and very dusty, with ink stains in several areas "I don't see anything," said Jane finally.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences."

"Then what do you see?" asked Jane, a little exasperated.

Holmes picked up the hat and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him."

"Holmes!"

"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," Holmes continued, disregarding Jane's remonstrance, "He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with pomade. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat."

"You're pulling my leg," said Jane, crossing hers and giving Holmes a skeptical look.

"Not in the least," replied Holmes, standing to look out the frost-covered window, "Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

Jane shook her head and said, "I try and I try, but I just can't follow your reasoning. How did you know he was an intellectual?"

"It is a question of cubic capacity," said Holmes, placing the hat on his head. It came down over the bridge of his nose, "a man with so large a brain must have something in it."

"And his financial situation?"

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

"Okay," said Jane, rising to stand next to Holmes, "but what about the foresight and 'moral retrogression?'"

Holmes laughed again. "Here is the foresight," he said, putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer, "They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

"I follow you so far," said Jane, nodding.

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses pomade, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of pomade. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, gray dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training."

"But what about his wife?" asked Jane, "You said that she's stopped loving him."

"This hat has not been brushed for weeks," said Holmes simply, "If I were to see my father with a week's accumulation of dust upon his hat, and Mother would allow him to go out in such a state, I should fear that he also had been unfortunate enough to lose her affection."

"Maybe he's a bachelor."

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

"Holmes, I think you need more things to fill out your day," said Jane, "You're putting a little too much thought into a hat for absolutely no reason."

Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the house with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who was dazed with astonishment.

"The - the goose, Sherlock!" he gasped, "The goose!"

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?" Holmes turned 30 degrees to get a better view of Peterson's face.

"Look at this! See what my mom found in its crop!" He held out his hand and revealed a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather larger than a marble in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.

Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" he said, "this is a treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?"

"Is it a sapphire? It's gotta be a precious stone. It cut through glass like butter." Peterson was so excited that he was twitching like mad.

"It's more than a precious stone," said Mycroft, coming up from the basement. He took the stone and looked at it carefully under Sherlock's magnifying glass. Finally, he declared, "It is _the_ precious stone. It is the famous blue carbuncle."

"The gemstone owned by that Chinese bishop?" asked Jane, who had read about it in school.

"Precisely so," said Sherlock, "I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in the papers every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of 10,000 dollars is certainly not within a 20th part of the market price."

"10,000 dollars! Oh my god," said Peterson, who sat down to keep from fainting. Mycroft then returned to the basement.

"That is the reward," said Holmes, "and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Bishop to part with half his fortune if he could but recover the gem."

"Wasn't it stolen a short time ago?" asked Watson.

"Yes, on December 19th, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the Bishop's jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that his prosecution is likely underway as we speak. I have some account of the matter here, I believe." Holmes dug around some newspapers until he found one. He smoothed it out and read aloud:

"_Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having, upon the 19__th__, abstracted from the jewel-case of José Lai, Roman Catholic Bishop of Macau, the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the suite of the Bishop upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Bishop was accustomed to keeping his jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, personal assistant to the Bishop, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Lieutenant Bradstreet gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the judge refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to an immediate trial. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court."_

"Hum! So much for the police," said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Smith, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fails, I shall have recourse to other methods."

Holmes took a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote, _Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Smith can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street._

"That is clear and concise," said Holmes to himself as he proofread it.

"How do you know he'll see it?" asked Jane.

"Well, Watson," said Sherlock, standing, "he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers."

"Which ones?" asked Peterson.

"Any that occur to you on the way. As for the stone, I shall keep it for now. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring."

After Peterson had gone, Holmes held the carbuncle up to a lamp to examine its many facets. "It's a bonny thing," he said musingly. "Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet 20 years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this small piece of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strongbox now and drop a line to the Bishop to say that we have it."

"Do you think this Horner guy is innocent?" asked Jane, stoking the fire.

"I cannot tell."

"You think this Henry Smith has anything to do with it?"

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Smith is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement."

"There's nothing we can do until then?" Jane added another log and closed the grate.

Holmes stared at the fire and replied, "Nothing."

"I have to get back home," said Jane, putting on her coat, "Mom needs me to help her with her company Christmas party. I'll come back tonight at half-past six."

"Very glad to see you," said Holmes, holding the door open for her, "My family shall dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

It took Jane a few seconds to realize that Holmes had just made a joke.

* * *

The merriment at the Watson house ran late, so it wasn't until around 6:45 that Jane made her way to Sherlock's house. She saw that a rather large man was standing on the porch, knocking at the Holmes' door. Just as she walked up, Mrs. Hudson answered it.

"Mr. Henry Smith, I believe," said Holmes, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Smith. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time." He indicated the derby, "Is that your hat, Mr. Smith?"

"That is definitely my hat," said Smith, placing it in his lap. Jane was amazed; his clothing, voice, build, and appearance all clicked with Sherlock's earlier observations.

"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

Smith gave a shamefaced chuckle and said, "Money's been tight, lately. I was sure that those punks who assaulted me took the hat and the goose. It would have been pointless to spend money in a failed attempt to get them back."

"Very naturally," said Sherlock, "By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it."

"You _ate_ it?" said Smith, eyes widening in horror.

"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not did so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?"

"That's fine," said Smith, looking immensely relieved.

"Of course," said Sherlock, gesturing toward the kitchen, "we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish – "

The man laughed heartily. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I don't think I'll be needing my goose's _disjecta membra_ for anything. I'll just take this goose, if you don't mind."

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said Sherlock, "By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose."

"I got it from the Alpha, a small restaurant near the art museum a few blocks down the way. My friends and I formed a club this year with the owner, and we all chipped in enough money to get each of us a goose this year in time for Christmas dinner. Thank you very much for everything." He tipped his hat and left without further ado.

"So much for Mr. Henry Smith," said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not really," replied Jane.

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot." He quickly entered the nearby walk-in closet and came out wearing his ulster and deerstalker cap.

* * *

It was bitterly cold that night, and fresh snow had started to fall. Jane had no mittens, so Sherlock lent her his mother's muff, and off they went. Their footfalls rang out, sharp and crisp in the snow, and they seemed to be breathing white clouds. Nonetheless, they hurried as fast as was practically possible, and found themselves at the Alpha in only 15 minutes. They went inside to find a very warm, cheery (yet contained) atmosphere. They sat down and ordered eggnog. The manager brought it after a short delay.

"Your eggnog should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said Holmes, sipping nonchalantly.

"Our geese?" asked the woman, looking at him quizzically.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Smith, who was a member of your goose club."

"Oh," she said, wiping off a nearby table, "Those geese weren't ours. We don't have it on our menu. I got them from Breckinridge's, that old-fashioned deli on the corner of Covent and Garden."

Holmes threw money down on the counter, gestured with his head to Jane that it was time to leave, and said, "Here's to your health, my good woman, and prosperity to your house. Goodnight."

* * *

"Now for Breckinridge's," Holmes continued, buttoning up his coat as they came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson, that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get several years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

Jane sighed. It had taken her some time to get used to Holmes' habit of not letting her get a word in edgewise on his monologues and soliloquies (of which he made many), and even still she found it annoying. Nonetheless, she hurried after him. They passed across Holborn, down Wendell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent and Garden. One of the largest shops bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor, a horsy-looking man in a white apron, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was sweeping the linoleum floor.

"Good evening," said Holmes, entering, "It is a cold night."

The owner nodded and said, "Be with ya in a sec." He then disappeared into the back room.

"Sold out of geese, I see," said Jane when the owner returned.

"Let you have 500 of them, tomorrow," offered the man, not quite jokingly.

"That's no good," replied Holmes.

"Well, you can probably get some at the store," said Breckinridge, "won't be as fresh as mine, though."

"But we were recommended to you," said Jane.

"By who?" said Breckinridge, eying her suspiciously.

"The landlady at the Alpha," said Holmes, pretending to browse the salami.

"Oh, yeah," he said, going behind the counter, "I sold her a couple dozen."

"Good birds," said Jane, trying to sound disinterested, "Where'd they come from?"

Breckinridge slammed his meat tenderizer down in anger and glared at the two, arms akimbo. "What are you driving at, kid? Let's have it straight, now."

"It is straight enough," said Holmes, standing at Watson's side, "We should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well I'm not telling you! So there!" shouted Breckinridge.

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance," said Holmes, "but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm? You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' I swear, the way people obsess over them, you'd think we were in England!"

"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries," said Holmes, "If you won't tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country-bred."

"Then you lost your fiver," said Breckinridge, "it's a town-bred."

"It's nothing of the kind," said Holmes, defiantly.

"I say it is," said Breckinridge, glaring.

"I don't believe it."

"You think you know more about birds than I do, boy?" challenged Breckinridge, "I've handled poultry since I was four years old, and I'm telling you that every single goose I sold to the Alpha was a town-bred."

"You'll never persuade me to believe it."

"Care to bet on that?"

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right," said Holmes haughtily, "But I'll have a twenty on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

The salesman chuckled. "Bill," he called into the back, "bring up the form for the geese we ordered for the Alpha." A small, rather ratty little man came out and began typing furiously at the computer in the corner. He then printed off a few things, handed them to Breckinridge, then returned to the back.

* * *

A few minutes later, Holmes stormed out the delicatessen, apparently out of his mind with anger. Jane ran after him, but stopped when he began laughing in his peculiar way that was both hearty and noiseless.

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut, you can always draw him by a bet," said he, "I daresay that if I had put 100 dollars down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott tonight, or whether we should reserve it for tomorrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should –"

Their conversation was interrupted by the sounds of a fight, coming from Breckinridge's. The salesman was shouting at a scrawny Asian man, shaking his fist.

"I've had enough of you," Breckinridge shouted, "I wish you would politely go to Hell! Keep bugging me, and I'll sick the dog on you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?"

"No, but one of them was mine," whined the little man.

"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

"She told me to come to you."

"Well, you can ask the king of Sweden for all I care. I'm done with you! Now go away!" Breckinridge slammed the door shut and flipped the sign to "closed."

"Ha! This may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes, "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow."

Using a basic pincers maneuver, Holmes and Watson moved through the bustling crowd until they were able to approach the man from both front and back.

"Who are you? What do you want?" asked the man in quavering voice.

"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you."

"What do you know about my business with him?" asked the man.

"It's our business to know what other people don't," said Jane cryptically.

"How can you know anything?" said the man.

"I know everything of it," said Holmes, "You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Ms. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Smith is a member."

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers, "I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

Holmes hailed a cab and said, "In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this windswept marketplace. But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

"John Robinson," said the man, his voice raising in pitch.

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly, "It is always awkward doing business with an _alias_."

The man flushed slightly. "My name is James Ryder," he said in a stronger voice.

"Precisely so," said Holmes knowingly, "Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know."

* * *

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as they entered the sitting room soon after, "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take a seat. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?"

Ryder nodded and said, "Yes."

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine, in which you were interested – white, with a black bar across the tail."

Ryder quivered with emotion and said, "Can you tell me where it is?"

"It was here," said Holmes.

"Here?" Ryder's eyes darted around.

"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead – the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum." Holmes went to his strong box and took out the blue carbuncle. Ryder leapt to his feet, gripping the mantel above the fireplace to keep himself steady.

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity."

Ryder just sat back and stared at his accuser.

"I have almost every link in my hands," continued Holmes, "and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Bishop of Macau's?"

Ryder muttered, "Catherine Cusack told me."

"Ah, yes," said Holmes, "I see – his excellency's assistant. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in the Bishop's room – you and your confederate Cusack – and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then – "

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at Sherlock's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked, "Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly, "It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

"I - I'll leave the country! The case against him with break down!" The look on Ryder's face was pitiful to the extreme.

"Hum! We will talk about that," said Holmes, "And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety."

"Okay," said Ryder, wiping his forehead with a tissue, "After Horner was arrested, I ran from the Cosmopolitan. I figured that the police would eventually search me and there was nowhere in the hotel where the gem would be safe. So I left on pretense of an errand. I went to my sister's business on Brixton. She's married to a man named Oakshott, an egg and poultry supplier. Walking there, I felt like every man I passed was a police officer, and I was sweating bullets. When I got to my sister's, she asked was so pale. I lied and said that I was upset about the theft, then when out to the backyard to have a cigarette and think."

He stopped to take a sip of water.

"I had a friend who was in prison for thievery, and I called him to formulate a plan to get ready cash out of the jewel. The only problem was getting it to his place. As a hotel employee, I could be stopped and searched at any time. Then it hit me: My sister told me that I could have a free goose for a Christmas present. I'd use it to carry the gem. So I grabbed the nearest one, white with a little black bar on the tail, and shoved the stone down into its crop. It got away from me for a while, but I got it again. I ran to my friend's, and we cut open the goose, but the stone wasn't there! I ran back to my sister's and found out that there were two geese with such a tail, and she had sold all of them to Breckinridge's! I tried to find them from there, but . . . well, you've met Breckinridge. And my sister now thinks I'm a madman for going on about one goose, and I'm a thief. I'm a thief, and I've never even touched the wealth I lost my character for!"

At this, Ryder broke down and started crying. All three of them sat in an awkward silence for a long time when Holmes rose and opened the front door.

"Get out!" he said.

"Oh, bless you, boy," said Ryder, "Bless you!"

"No more words," said Holmes, "Get out!"

Ryder dashed out, his footfalls become fainter and fainter until they fell silent.

"You're not going to turn him in?" asked Jane.

"We are not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies, Watson," said Holmes, "If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony. But it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a jailbird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward."

* * *

_**(A/N: I'm glad to be done with this one. I have an excellent idea for the next chapter. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	6. Why do You Do the Things you Do?

_**(A/N: Stage 3 story. A little peek into Sherlock's past, before he met Watson. Please Read & Review.)**_

**Why do You Do the Things you Do?**

* * *

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," said Jane, "Is Sherlock home?"

"I'm afraid not," she said, "But you're welcome to come in and wait, Miss Watson."

"I just need to pick some of his notes," said Jane, "I need to look over the results of his chemistry experiment."

Mrs. Hudson admitted her, and Jane ran upstairs to Sherlock's room. The disorder and untidiness still amazed her, no matter how many times she'd been there. He kept his homework in an antique coal scuttle, remains of chemical experiments in the toe end of a Persian slipper, and unanswered letters were stuck to the mantle of his fireplace with a Bowie knife! It was amazing that he was ever able to find anything.

Fortunately, right there on his bed were the notes. She picked them up and looked them over, when something caught her eye. There was a picture of Sherlock on the bed. A set of pictures, actually, of him and a stunningly beautiful redhead in one of those photo booths.

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, appearing in the doorway, "I – " he stopped when he saw her holding the picture.

"Who's this?" asked Watson, too late noticing the fury in Sherlock's face.

"That is none of your concern," he snapped, snatching the picture from her hand, "Leave here now, and never enter this room again without my permission!" He shoved her out and slammed the door closed.

"Geez," she said to herself, "who spit in his crumpets?"

"The girl in the photograph is a rather sore subject with Sherlock," said Mycroft, who was coming up the stairs.

"Why?" asked Jane, "Is she his girlfriend or something?"

Mycroft sighed and said, "Come with me, Jane."

* * *

He led her down to his basement room, which was both more cluttered and more organized that Sherlock's. He took a thick, leather-bound book from the shelf and opened it, revealing it to be a picture album.

"I keep mementoes from all of Sherlock's cases here," he explained.

"What does this have to do with the girl in the picture?" asked Jane. Mycroft turned the pages until he came to another picture of her.

"Her name is Irene Adler," said Mycroft, "and she was Sherlock's girlfriend. His first, and thus far his only. They met three years ago, when her mother hired Sherlock to discover who was sabotaging a racing horse owned by her uncle. Now, as you know, Sherlock and I are odd ducks, and our intellectual foibles have often hampered our interactions with the fairer sex. But Irene was different. She was cunning as Sherlock was wise, as charismatic as he was commanding, and as beautiful as he was handsome."

"So what happened?" asked Jane.

"Moriarty happened," said Mycroft, a flash of cold hate crossing his corpulent visage.

"Who is Moriarty?" asked Jane, "Sherlock mentioned the name a couple times, but he's never gone into details."

"Aye," sighed Mycroft, "There is the genius and the wonder of the thing. The man pervades Seattle, and no one has heard of him. That is what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. I tell you, Jane, in all seriousness, that if my brother could defeat that man, if he could rid society of him, I should feel that his worked had reached its summit, and I have no doubt that he would turn to some more placid line in life. Between ourselves, many of his cases, as well as the trust fund established by her majesty's government while we are still dependants of our father, have left him in such a position that Sherlock could continue to live in the quiet fashion which is most congenial to him, and to concentrate his attention upon his chemical researches. But he cannot rest, Watson, nor sit quiet in his chair, as long as Professor Moriarty walks the streets of Seattle unchallenged."

"What has he done?" asked Jane.

"His life has been an extraordinary one," said Mycroft, removing from his bookshelf a notebook, "He is a Chechen by ethnicity, and his parents came over from Russia during the fall of the Soviet Union. He is of excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty, exceeding even my own. At the age of seven, he completed his first doctorate. At nine, he wrote a treatise upon the Binomial Theorem, which has had a European vogue. By all appearance, he had a most brilliant future before him. But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood, which, instead of being modified, was increased and rendered infinitely more dangerous by his extraordinary mental powers. At 11, his parents died in a mysterious fire."

"I read about this kid in school," said Jane, "the boy-genius. He'd be about our age now. But hasn't he been out of the public eye for, like, three years?"

Mycroft nodded and said, "There is no one who knows the higher criminal world of this city so well as Sherlock. For some time he has continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law, and throws its shield over the wrongdoer. Again and again, in cases of the most varying sorts – forgery cases, robberies, murders – he has felt the presence of this force, and I myself have deduced its action in many of those undiscovered crimes in which Sherlock has not been personally consulted. For years, we have endeavoured to break through the veil which shrouded it, and at last the time came when he seized the correct thread and followed it, until it led, after a thousand cunning windings, to Professor James Moriarty of mathematical celebrity."

Mycroft showed Jane a photo of Moriarty before continuing. "He is the Napoleon of crime, Jane. He is the organizer of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city. He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed – the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case, money is found for his bail or his defense. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught – never so much as suspected."

"A one-man Mafia," said Jane, as much to herself as to Mycroft, "But what does this have to do with Sherlock and Irene?"

"I'm afraid," he said, closing the book, "that that is a story you should hear from Sherlock, not I."

* * *

The next day, Sherlock was unusually offhand with Jane. He barely spoke to her as they walked to school, ignored her between classes, and avoided sparring with her at Lestrade's dojo.

"Are you and Holmes fighting, or something?" asked Lestrade later.

"Sort of," said Jane, wiping her sweaty face with a towel, "He's mad at me. Long story."

"Well you better make up with him," said Lestrade, "Nearly broke my nose with that last elbow punch."

So Jane waited until Sherlock was by himself, away from the other Irregulars, and followed him into the locker room. "Look, Holmes," she said, "I'm sorry about the picture. Mycroft told me about Irene Adler."

Holmes frowned and said, "I suppose he also told you about Moriarty."

"Yes," said Jane, "But he didn't tell me what he had to do with you and Irene."

Holmes removed his grappling gloves and sat down on the nearby bench. "There is something you must understand, Watson," he said, "Before Irene Adler, I had never truly desired female companionship. In all honesty, I was not a whole-souled admirer of womankind. I find their motives so inscrutable; their most trivial actions may mean volumes, and their most extraordinary conduct may depend upon a hairpin. How can you build on such quicksand?!"

"_Excuse_ me?" said Jane, putting her hands on her hips and giving him an "Oh-no-you-didn't" look.

Holmes appeared to not have noticed. "But Irene was different," he said, "Not only was she the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, but she was intelligent, and she possessed a playful, almost sensual wickedness I'd never seen before. She was also devoted to her aspirations in the way I was to mine. The attraction between us was both immediate and mutual, and less than a week after, we were 'going steady' as the expression goes."

He swallowed hard, as thought the memory was painful, and continued. "Mycroft sensed that something was amiss with Irene, and cautioned me against the exclusivity and intensity of our relationship, reminding me, as the Bard said, to 'love moderately.' I heard, but I did not heed. What is advice to a man in love? Mother and Father were overjoyed that I had a girlfriend. Why should I listen to my brother over my parents?"

He slumped against the lockers, his face overcome with emotions of an intensity that Jane had never seen before.

"What happened?" she asked gently, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"One night, I received a phone call from Irene. She asked me to meet her at the docks within an hour. Her voice was full of fear as she explained that she had gained evidence that could lead to Moriarty's conviction. Then she screamed and the connection was lost. I hurried down to the docks as fast as my car would drive. I got out and saw a manila folder near the water. I examined it, and there was nothing. I turned to go and search for Irene, but instead she found me. And she was with Moriarty."

* * *

_Moriarty was wearing a black leather trench-coat. His skin was clear and smooth, his eyes sunken in his head, and his face oscillated back and forth in a curiously reptilian fashion. Irene wore a purple bikini top and tight black jeans, with Moriarty's hand slid down the back of her pants._

"_Sherlock Holmes," said Moriarty with a blood-curdling smile, "At last, we meet. Face to face."_

"_The pleasure is entirely yours," said Holmes, showing no fear._

"_You have less frontal development that I should have expected," replied Moriarty, "It is dangerous to finger loaded firearms in one's pocket." At this, Holmes took out his revolver and threw it to the ground. _

"_I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to say," said Holmes, attempting to remain in control._

"_All that I have to say has already crossed your mind," replied Moriarty._

"_Then possibly my answer has crossed yours," said Holmes._

"_You stand fast?"_

"_Absolutely."_

"_Tut, tut," said Moriarty, "I'm quite sure that a man of your intelligence will see that there can be but one outcome to this affair. It is necessary that you should withdraw. You have worked things in such a fashion that, inevitably, we shall have only one recourse. It has been an intellectual treat to me to see the way in which you have grappled with my affairs, and I say, unaffectedly, that it would be a grief to me to be forced to take any extreme measure. You smile, sir, but I assure you that it really would."_

"_I do not take orders from common thugs!" shouted Holmes._

_Moriarty frowned slightly. "Dear me," he said, regaining his smile, "such unpleasant words for an English gentleman of your standing, Holmes. Perhaps you require a lesson in manners."_

_Irene removed his overcoat as he went into a Wushu stance. Holmes entered a Muay Thai stance in response. Holmes launched an Axe Heel Kick at Moriarty's head, but his opponents dodged and landed a powerful Mízongyì punch to Holmes' solar plexus._

"_Know this, Sherlock Holmes," said Moriarty, kicking Holmes viciously in the face, "You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realize. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden under foot."_

_Moriarty put his coat back on and began walking away at a leisurely pace. Irene leaned down to where Holmes lay. "You were a great boyfriend, Sherlock," she said, kissing him once, "but he pays me." She then got up and followed Moriarty, leaving Holmes alone on the dock._

* * *

"That was my singular interview with Professor Moriarty," said Holmes, putting on his clothes, "I confess that it left an unpleasant effect upon my mind. His soft, precise fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully could not produce."

Jane sat speechless, not knowing what to say.

"I know what you are thinking," said Holmes, "'Why not take police precautions against him?' The Professor is fenced 'round with safeguards so cunningly devised that, do what I will, I have yet to get evidence which would convict in a court of law. You know my powers, my dear Watson, and yet at the end of three months I was forced to confess that I had at last met an antagonist who was my intellectual equal. My horror at his crimes was lost in my admiration at his skill."

"That's why you started the Baker Street Irregulars," said Jane, realization dawning on her, "You needed an opposite number to stand against Moriarty's goons."

"Exactly," he said, smiling at Jane, "more specifically, his inner circle. They are the foulest of the foul, Watson. Trained, intelligent, and sociopathic. These, his most trusted soldiers, are known as the Red Triangle Gang, after a small tattoo he brands them with. They are only called upon for acts of crime which none of his other agents could perform."

Holmes turned to look at her once more before he left. "This, Watson," he said, almost sadly, "Is why I have only loved once, and why I shall never do so again. This is why I have given up so much in devotion to being a detective. This is why I push you and the other Irregulars as hard as I do."

* * *

_**(A/N: The title is NOT based on the song from "Don Quixote." Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	7. Meet the Parents

_**(A/N: I had a quick flash of inspiration. A Stage 2 story. Marty's dad holds the likeness of Gary Busey (circa 1994 **_**à la**_** Doc Hawkins). Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

**Marseille, France**

It was a moonless night in Marseille. The only creature stirring was a man. His silent form hopped from rooftop to rooftop with the grace of a panther. His specially-tailored suit allowed him total freedom of movement, while his billowing cloak allowed him to control his descent. Finally, the man came to a stop and stared across the narrow street to the apartment that was his destination.

With a forceful leap, the man cleared the street and landed upon the roof of the apartment. Carefully glancing into the window to be sure as to avoid detection, he hopped down the balcony and entered through the sliding-glass door.

_Beautiful,_ he thought, glancing around, _This apartment is simply beautiful! Looting it will be a pleasure._

The man removed a backpack from under his cape and began to carefully scan the dark room for any objects of value. _I won't be too greedy,_ thought the man, eyeing a few baubles, _I'll just take enough to properly cover my expenses for the month. A pity I have such extravagant tastes._ Then, the man saw a gorgeous crystal vase.

_What an exquisite piece,_ he thought, _That's worth a month on the Riviera – at the very least!_ He reached for the vase, but the sound of a pistol cocking caused him to stop. He raised his hands and turned around.

"You are a difficult man to locate, Monsieur Lupin," said a voice from the corner in accented but fairly good French, "even more difficult to lay a trap for."

"Who are you?" asked Lupin, raising his top-hat slightly.

"Ah, allow me to introduce myself," said the voice, and a light turned on to reveal a young man, "My name is Professor Moriarty. Doubtless, you have never heard of me." He motioned with his hand and the lackey lowered his gun.

"I apologize for Robert's overeagerness," said Moriarty, offering Lupin a glass of cognac, "He waited so long for your arrival . . ."

"What?" asked Lupin, "You almost sound as if you were expecting me."

"Of course we were," replied Moriarty, "A professional thief such as yourself does not rob apartments at random. Someone recommended this place to you; someone in my employ."

"What do you want with me?" said Lupin, sipping the brandy.

"I have need of someone with your particular talents," said Moriarty with a skull-like grin, "Tell me, have you ever heard of the famed Beryl Coronet?"

* * *

**Seattle, Washington**

"I know there's buried treasure in here, somewhere," said Jane to herself, digging through her closet and drawers. It was Friday night, Marty was coming in an hour to take her to his parents' house for dinner, and she still wasn't ready.

"Perfect!" she finally shouted, grabbing a purple tank-dress. It was a little more form-fitting than she was used to wearing, but parents liked girls in dresses, right? She wiggled into it and then quickly did her makeup, hair, and nails. After all, there was no reason she couldn't dress for Marty, too. She completed her ensemble with a small black purse and strappy, stiletto-heeled shoes.

"Wow," said Marty when he came to pick Jane up. Even when she kissed him, he couldn't stop smiling.

"Well, let's go," she said, hopping into his car.

When they got to his house, Marty cut off the engine and said, "I oughtta warn you in advance: While he may be a little odd, my dad is completely harmless. Just don't stare at the scar on his face."

They went inside, and Jane saw a tall, thin man with slightly-graying blond hair standing over stove wearing a black T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He turned when he heard the door close, saw Jane and did a slight double-take.

"Hey, Dad," said Marty, "This is Jane Watson. Jane, this my dad, Frederick Morstan."

Frederick entered the livingroom and shook Jane's hand. He smiled and said, "Well, it's good to see my son's finally startin' to get some taste."

"Dad," hissed Marty.

"What do you mean?" asked Jane.

"His girlfriends usually scare the crap outta me," said Frederick, "You know the type: black eyeliner, combat boots, no respect for authority, all that."

"Dinner!" called a female voice from the dining room. Jane smelled spaghetti with meat sauce, and let Marty lead her to the table, where she shook hands with his mom, Sarah.

Marty's parents were polite and friendly, but somehow, Jane didn't get the feeling that they'd be welcoming her into the family any time soon. Also, Mr. Morstan had the rather unnerving tendency to stare at her appraisingly when she wasn't looking. And while she tried not to, she couldn't help herself from staring at the long, thin scar on his right cheek.

"It's kinda like a train wreck," said Frederick suddenly, "isn't it? My scar, I mean. You just can't bring yourself to look away, no matter how terrifying it is."

Jane looked at her feet and blushed a deep red. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to – "

"It's fine," he said with a wave of his hand, "Doesn't bother me in the least. I'm actually quite proud of it. You see, I got it in 'Nam."

"Dad," interjected Marty, "There's no need to tell Jane that story."

"Hush, boy," Frederick said, "You see, Jane, it was the heaviest part of the war. I was a sniper in the Army. One night, Intelligence tells me that the gooks got some reinforcements from straight outta the USSR: Some hotshot sniper from Dalmatia with a list of kills to put Nazi war criminals to shame. Went by the name of Boris Ruskovich. They know when he's gonna arrived in Khe Sanh, so they spend me, my spotter, and a whole platoon of Marines out into the jungle. Suddenly, we're surrounded. The commies are shooting at us from all sides. I grab a machine-gun and just go nuts on those pinko punks. Just as it's over, I hear somethin' behind me. I turn, and Ruskovich is there, cutting at me with a knife. He gets good ones in, but at close range, he's like a babe in the woods. So I shoot him in the nuts with my pistol, then his pancreas, then his head. I got the Bronze Star for clippin' that asshole."

Everyone at the table sat in a thoroughly uncomfortable silence for a while. Finally, Marty said, "I'm gonna go show Jane my room."

He led her upstairs and closed the door. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Marty," she said.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, "My dad just doesn't seem to get that you don't tell stuff like that when people are trying to eat."

"It's okay," Jane said, "I've heard grosser stuff. At least we've got a moment alone." She slinked over to Marty and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Marty responded by ramming his tongue into her mouth, which she received with passion. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair as his hands gently roamed over her body.

"Hey," he said in a husky voice when they parted for air, "You can go and rejoin my folks for dessert. I have something I need to do first."

_I bet,_ thought Jane with a wicked little smile, and she glided out of the room in a way guaranteed to keep Marty up there for a few more minutes.

When Jane came down, she noticed that Mrs. Morstan was staring at her sort of hard, as if she was able to see Marty's hand prints all over her dress.

"If you need to use the bathroom, there's one down the hallway," she said to Jane sweetly, "so you won't have to run upstairs."

_And it keeps me away from your son's bedroom,_ thought Jane.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Morstan poured everyone coffee and went to the kitchen to clean up, and Marty followed to help. Frederick sat in an armchair and steepled his fingers. Jane sat on the couch, crossing her legs elegantly.

"So tell me," said Frederick, looking once to see if either his wife or son were coming, "what's a gorgeous girl like you doin' with my son?"

"He's pretty gorgeous himself," Jane replied, sipping her hot chocolate daintily.

Frederick gave a half-shrug and said, "I'd think a girl of your sophistication would be more interested in older guys." His left eyelid fluttered slightly in what Jane was sure was a wink.

"Well, some older men are VERY attractive," she replied in a sultry voice, seductively licking the whipped cream off her drink, "but I haven't met any in a while." He seemed to be wondering if she had complemented or insulted him when Marty reappeared.

"Hey, are you two getting along?" asked Marty, sitting down next to Jane.

"Absolutely," said Frederick, a trace of bitterness in his voice, "Your young lady's a real firecracker."

* * *

It was about nine o'clock when Marty dropped Jane off. The ride home had been fairly silent, thought Marty attributed this to fatigue on Jane's part.

"So?" asked Marty as they pulled up to her house, "What did you think of my folks?"

"They're nice," said Jane, "I had a good time tonight." She kissed him and got out of his car.

"Good evening, Jane," said a voice behind her. She whirled around and saw Mycroft, standing on the front lawn.

"What are you doing at this time of night?" she asked.

"I was out for a walk," he said, "and I saw you come home. So tell me, my dear, how did the meeting with your male friend's parental units go? I'm sure they loved you as much as mine do."

"It could have gone better," she said, "His father is both a battle-scarred wacko and a lecher, and his mother thinks I'm a tramp just because I like to wear dresses that fit my curves."

Mycroft smiled reassuringly and said, "If I were you, Jane, I would not give it another thought. I fail to see the relevance in their opinion of you when Marty cares for you as much as he clearly does."

Franz von Suppé's _Light Cavalry_ began to fill the air, carried on a viola.

"Sounds like Sherlock is having trouble sleeping again," sighed Jane, "Well, goodnight, Mycroft. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

_**(A/N: As you can probably tell, this is a prequel to the next chapter. Please Review.)**_


	8. The Case of the Bloodless Sock

_**(A/N: Okay, I know you guys were expecting my retelling of "The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet," but I'm having trouble working out all the little details, especially since there will be another, non-Holmesian character involved. So for now, please enjoy this story, which was originally written not by Sir Arthur C. Doyle, but by Anne Perry. Please Read & Review.)**_

**The Case of the Bloodless Sock**

* * *

It was a sunny March morning in Seattle, and at 221A Baker Street, Jane Watson was preparing for a trip to visit her uncle, Robert Hunt, in Wyoming.

"Jane!" called her mother from downstairs, "We're leaving in five minutes to drive you to the airport. Finishing packing and come down."

"Okay, Mom," she called back. She had been thrilled when her uncle had called and asked her to come visit. There hadn't been an interesting case for weeks, and Sherlock was becoming unbearable. He was in such a foul mood that even his parents and brother were avoiding him.

Finally, she was packed and went out to say goodbye before she left.

"By all means go, Watson," said Sherlock, who sat on the front porch of his house, reading the newspaper, "At this time of the year you will be in your town, wherever it is, before dark. Goodbye."

Jane threw her duffel bag into the trunk and got in the car. As her dad drove her away, she couldn't help but be saddened that Sherlock hadn't given her a more sanguine farewell.

Hours later, Jane got off the plane at the airport in Gillette, Wyoming and boarded a bus to the small town where her uncle lived. As a major stockholder in much of the mining activity throughout the Powder River Basin, he lived quite well.

However, to Jane's surprise, when she got off at the bus station, no one was there to greet her. So she started walking toward her uncle's house. After about four miles, when she came up the place, a man ran up to her and said, "Have you found her?!"

Jane's look of bewilderment told him that she hadn't, and it pushed the man almost to despair.

"Who's lost?" asked Jane, "I can help you look."

"Jenny!" the man cried, "Jenny Hunt, my neighbor's daughter! She's only five years old! God knows where she is! She's been gone since four this afternoon, and it's almost ten. Please, help me look!"

Jane's guts turned to water at the news. Jenny was her cousin! It was getting dark fast, and even if she was okay, it was cold and she would be terrified!

"Absolutely!" said Jane, throwing her bag onto the front porch, "Where do we start?"

The next three hours seemed to drag on. Her uncle acknowledged her presence, but he was too overcome with fear to do anything but thank her for helping. All of his neighbors were helping, and the town was soon lit up by all of the flashlights.

Finally, Jane poked her head into a small alley and saw Jenny. Calling to the others, Robert came and picked Jenny up. She was pale and frightened, but she didn't seem to be hurt.

* * *

The next morning, when Jane came down to breakfast, she saw her uncle sitting at the kitchen table, looking over a number of business papers.

"I don't know what to do, Jane," he said when she sat down, "Jenny is devoted to Josephine, her _au pair_, but how can I keep in my employ a girl who let's a five-year-old child just wander off? But if I fire her, Jenny will be heartbroken. She's been all but a mother to that girl, since your Aunt Sophie died . . ."

"Well," said Jane, "at this point, it would probably hurt Jenny even more if she lost Josephine. I'd say give her a second chance. She'll be much more careful, now that Jenny's run off."

Suddenly, there was a clanking sound from the front door. Both Jane and Robert looked to discover that an envelope had been pushed through the mail-slot. They looked out the window, but couldn't see who had left it.

Hunt opened the letter and paled. "What's wrong?" asked Jane. Hunt passed her the letter.

_Dear Mr. Hunt:_

_Yesterday you lost your daughter, and last night at exactly twelve of the clock, you received her back again. You may take any precautions you care to, but they will not prevent me from taking her again, any time I choose, and returning her when, and if, I choose. And if it is my mind not to, then you will never see her again._

_M._

Jane's hands were shaking as she laid the paper down. Hunt snapped out of his trance and said, "I'll warn the neighbors. Anyone who isn't known in town will be watched carefully, and we'll set up a guard around the house. Excuse me, Jane, but this requires my immediate attention."

Jane nodded, but said nothing. _What would Sherlock do if he were here?_ she thought, _He would do more than just defend, he'd attack. But I don't know who this "M" is. _

Jane decided to talk to Jenny first, to see how much she knew. It took a few minutes to persuade Josephine, who was deeply reluctant let anyone disturb the girl, to let her in, but finally she was admitted.

Jane sat across from Jenny on her bed while she finished her breakfast. She knew that Jenny would not remember her, as they hadn't met since Jenny was born, so had to approach the girl carefully.

"Good morning, Jane," said Jenny when she was done with her eggs.

"Are you feeling okay?" asked Jane softly.

"Yes," replied Jenny, "I don't need any medicine."

"That's good," said Jane, "Did you sleep well? No bad dreams?"

Jenny shook her head.

"Can you tell me what happened?" asked Jane.

"I was in the garden," said Jenny, whose voice lowered to a whisper, "I was picking flowers," Jane gathered that she wasn't supposed to do that, "And someone came up to me."

"A stranger?" asked Jane.

Jenny nodded and said, "He was old, but old like you, not like Daddy; He was big, but thin; and he talked a funny way."

"What did he say his name was?" asked Jane.

"Fessa," said Jenny.

"'Fessa?' That's a weird name," said Jane, more to herself.

"No," said Jenny, "P'fessa!"

"Oh," said Jane, "You mean 'Professor?'" Jenny nodded again.

A terrible thought began to form in Jane's mind. "He was tall, thin, and spoke with an accent," reiterated Jane, "Did he have strange eyes?"

Jenny nodded and shivered, as if with fear. Josephine gave Jane a look to suggest that she not upset the girl. By now, Jane was convinced: the man who had taken Jenny was Professor Moriarty, Holmes' nemesis!

"Where did he take you?" asked Jane.

"A house," said Jenny, "with a big room."

"How did he take you there?" asked Jane, "In a car?"

Jenny shook her head, "It was like a bike, but it was fast, like a car."

Jane deduced that she meant a motorcycle. "Okay," she said to Jenny, "was it warm there?"

"Not really," said Jenny.

"Did he give you anything to eat?"

"Yes," said Jenny, "he gave me cupcakes with lots of frosting." She smiled as though the memory was a pleasant one.

"Was there a window you could see out of?" asked Jane, a little too hopefully.

"Yes," said Jenny, "I could see the whole town!"

Jenny spent the next several minutes describe the scenery to Jane, who, by the end of it, had a fairly clear idea about where this place could be. She went back downstairs to see her uncle, who was still ashen.

"What does he want?" he asked, "I can't even comply! He didn't ask for anything!"

"Uncle Rob, can I use your computer for a sec?" asked Jane, "My friend, Sherlock Holmes, is a detective, and he'll help any way he can if I send him an e-mail."

"There hasn't really been a crime, Jane," said Hunt, "my child has been taken and returned with no ransom demand."

"It's weird enough to get him interested," said Jane.

Hunt nodded and left. Jane's e-mail contained only one word, the word guaranteed to bring Holmes to Gillette: Moriarty.

* * *

Sure enough, when Jane met Sherlock at the airport in the evening, he was very different from the miserable teenager he'd been when she'd left Baker Street.

"Moriarty!" said Holmes to Jane, as if it were some sort of charm.

"I think so," replied Jane.

Sherlock gave her a quick glance and said, "You are uncertain. What makes you doubt, Watson? What has happened since you sent for me?"

"Nothing," said Jane, "We don't know if it was Moriarty who took Jenny."

Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, "Has any demand been received yet?" He made no attempt to disguise the disappointment in his voice.

"Not yet," replied Jane. They both got into the car that Hunt had lent her and they proceed back to the house. On the way, Holmes was scowling slightly, as though he were brooding on something.

"I'm not going to apologize, Holmes, if that's what you're waiting for," said Jane, a bit more petulantly than she intended.

"What gave you the idea that I expected an apology?" said Holmes in a toneless voice.

"The kidnapping of my cousin is just as important as any one of your cases, Holmes," she said, "There's no reason for you to sulk just because your archenemy may not have anything to do with this."

Holmes was about to reply when suddenly John, Hunt's gardener, ran up to the car, waving his arms. Jane stopped and got out.

"What's wrong? What happened?" asked Jane fearfully.

"She's gone again!" shouted the gardener, choking back a sob, "Jenny's gone!"

Instantly, Holmes was all attention. He leapt out of the car and strode over to the man. "I am Sherlock Holmes," he said, "Tell me precisely what has occurred. Omit no detail but tell me only what you have observed for yourself, or if someone has told you, give me their words as exactly as you can recall them."

"Her maid, Josephine," said John, regaining his composure, "She was with Jenny, upstairs in the nursery. Jenny had been running around and stubbed her toe badly. It was bleeding, so Josephine went to get her a band-aid, and when she got back, Jenny wasn't there. At first, it didn't seem worth worrying over because the ice-cream man was outside and Jenny loves ice-cream. So she went down, but Jenny wasn't there, and Mr. Hunt hadn't seen her either. We looked everywhere in the house . . ."

"But you did not find the child," Holmes finished for him, his own face grim.

The man nodded vigorously and said, "Please, help us look for her!"

"Where's the ice-cream man, now?" asked Jane.

"Percy?" asked the gardener, "He's helping Mr. Hunt search the woods."

"Is he local?" asked Holmes.

"Yes," said John, "I've known him almost all my life. He would NEVER hurt Jenny, and he couldn't've because he's been with us the whole time."

"Then the answer lies elsewhere." Holmes got into the car again and said, "Watson may know where she was taken the first time and we shall go there immediately. Tell your employer what we have done, and continue your search in all other places. If it is indeed who we think, he will not be so obvious as to show use the place again, but we must look."

Jane drove with all speed to the place Jenny described, a rundown old house at the very edge of the town. They searched the house and found it empty. They didn't have time to inspect it closely, and only had flashlights to search as they could.

"She has not been here tonight," said Holmes bitterly, "We shall return in the morning to learn what we may."

They went back to the house, where Holmes questioned Hunt's entire staff and every neighbor present. Jane, having tried and failed to console her uncle, found him again out back, examining the soil for footprints.

Holmes knew it was Jane by her step and said, "This is a miserable business, Watson. There is something peculiarly vile about using a child to accomplish one's purposes. If it is in fact Moriarty, he has sunk very low indeed."

Jane had never known Holmes to have a special fondness toward children, but the look of harsh anger on his face made her proud to call him her best friend.

"I despise a coward even more than I do a fool," said Holmes, "Foolishness is more often than not an affliction of nature. Cowardice is a vice sprung from placing own's own safety before the love of truth, known as the safety and welfare of others. It is the essential selfishness, Watson, and as such it lies at the core of so much other sin."

He stood from his crouch and started pacing. "But he must want something," he said as much to himself as to Jane, "Moriarty never does anything simply because he has the power to do it. You say the child was returned last night, and this morning a note was delivered? There will be another note. He may choose torture his victim by lengthening the process, until the poor man is so weak with the exhaustion of swinging from hope to despair and back, but sooner or later he will name his price. And you may be sure, the longer he waits, the higher the stakes he is playing for!"

The two of them then took up their flashlights and starting searching again, walking what seemed like miles through fields and woodland, calling Jenny's name.

After another half-hour, everyone gathered in Hunt's kitchen to take a break when the door suddenly opened. Jenny stepped in, pale as a ghost, with one shoe off and her foot smeared with blood.

"Papa . . ." she called out, on the verge of tears. Hunt ran over to her and scooped her up in his arms, crying with relief. Many of the women did the same, and not a few of the men found the need to blow their noses and turn to regain their composure.

* * *

Jane woke up at half-past seven the next morning. When she came down for breakfast, she found Sherlock pacing back and forth in the hall.

"Ah, at last," he said when he saw Jane, "Go and question the child again. Learn anything you can, and pay particular attention to who took her and who brought her back."

"You don't think one of the neighbors is involved, do you?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know, Watson," said Sherlock, clearly frustrated, "There is something about this that eludes me, something beyond the ordinary. It is Moriarty at his most fiendish, because it is at heart very simple."

"Simple!" Jane burst out, "Jenny's been kidnapped twice, even though we did everything we could to protect her. The only explanation is that he got one of these people to betray my uncle."

But Holmes just shook his head and said, "If so then it is coincidental. It is very much his own work he is about. While you were asleep, I buried myself learning something of Hunt's affairs. As you know, he is one of the main stockholders in many of Wyoming's uranium mines, as well as the owner of large amount of land in the area, but he has no political aspirations or any apparent enemies. I cannot yet see why he interests Moriarty."

"Money," said Jane simply, "Anyone who has people that he loves can have money extorted from him by a man like Moriarty."

"It is clumsy, Watson," said Sherlock, "Money in any form can be traced, if the plans are carefully laid, and there would finally be enough of a case to place him under indictment. No, such a kidnap has not the stamp of Moriarty upon it. It gives no satisfaction."

Jane waited until nine to question Jenny again, and practically had to fight Josephine to talk to Jenny alone.

"Hello, Jane," said Jenny, "I haven't had breakfast yet. Have you?"

"No," said Jane, "I thought it would be better to see if you were doing okay, first. How do you feel?"

"I don't like it," she said, "I don't wanna go there again."

Jane's heart ached to see Jenny so upset, and she said tenderly, "I need to know everything. Was it the same man again? The Professor?"

Jenny nodded.

"Did he take you to the same place?"

"No," said Jenny, "It was a barn, I think. There was a lot of straw. It prickled, and there was nothing to do."

Jane almost smiled at this, but held back. "How did he get you out of the nursery?"

Jenny's face scrunched up as though she were thinking hard. Finally she said, "I don't 'member."

"Did he carry you, or did you walk?" suggested Jane, trying to jog her memory.

"Don't 'member. I think I walked."

"Down the back stairs, maybe?"

"Don't 'member."

_Damn,_ thought Jane, _She was probably drugged._ Jane went back downstairs to tell Holmes what she knew. She found him reading a letter that, apparently, had just been delivered.

"This is the reason, Watson!" he said, "And in true Moriarty style. You were correct in your deduction." He handed her the note.

_My Dear Hunt,_

_I see that you have called in Sherlock Holmes. How predictable Watson is! But it will avail you nothing. I can still take the child any time I choose, and you will be helpless to do anything about it. However, if you should choose to sell 90 percent or more of your shares in the Black Thunder Coal Mine, at whatever the current market price is, then I shall trouble you no further._

_Moriarty._

"Why would he want Uncle Rob to sell his stock?" asked Jane, "What good would it do him?"

"It would start a panic and plunge the value of the entire mine," replied Holmes, "Very probably of the other mines in the Powder River Basin, in the fear that Hunt knew something damaging about them. Any denial he might make would only fuel speculation."

"And then Moriarty could buy all of that stock dirt cheap."

"Exactly," agreed Holmes, "and not only that, but appear as a local hero as well, saving the livelihood of all the workers. This is the true Moriarty, Watson. This has his stamp upon it. Now, what have you learned from the child of how she left here?"

"Almost nothing," admitted Jane, "I think she was drugged."

Holmes listened to what Jane knew, and then said, "We shall go back to the house. There may be something to learn from a fuller examination, and then seek the barn, although I have no doubt Moriarty has long left it now. But first I shall speak to Hunt, and persuaded him to do nothing regarding the shares – "

"You can't ask him to do that!" shouted Jane, "We can't protect Jenny! Twice he's gotten her, and we're helpless to stop it from happening again."

"It is not yet time to despair," said Holmes calmly, "I believe we have some hours. It is only six minutes past ten. Let us give ourselves until two of the clock. That will still allow Hunt sufficient time to inform his stockbroker before close of business today, if that should be necessary, and Moriarty may be given proof of it, if the worst should befall."

"Do you see an end to it?" asked Jane, starting to lose hope, "Uncle Rob would give up anything to save Jenny."

"Except his honor, Watson," said Holmes rather quickly, "It may tear at his very soul, but he will not plunge a hundred families into destitution, with their own children to feed and to care for, in order to save one, even though it is his own. But we have no time to stand here debating. Have the car ready for us, and as soon as I have spoken with Hunt, I shall join you at the front door."

"What's the point if Moriarty's gone by now?" asked Jane.

"Men leave traces of their acts, Watson," replied Holmes. With that, he went to Hunt's office.

* * *

Less than half an hour later, they arrived.

"Well?" asked Jane.

"I persuaded Hunt to delay action only until two," said Holmes, tight-lipped.

"I asked around the neighborhood," said Jane, "Either the townsfolk are more loyal than candid, or my uncle is pretty well-liked around here. He's wealthy in real possessions, the house and land and the mines, but he doesn't have a huge amount of ready cash. The worst thing they had to say about him is that he's got a slight temper."

Holmes frowned and became more withdrawn as he listened to the praise. It told him nothing helpful. They eventually found the tall house again, and the neighbors gave a description that matched Moriarty to a T.

While searching the upstairs, Jane called to Holmes and said, "I found the room where Jenny was kept." She got down on the floor and examined every inch, finding a few crumbs that indicated the cupcakes Jenny told her about.

"Look," said Holmes, "A fine yellow hair." He picked it up from a couch cushion. "Come!" he said, heading down the stairs, "There is nothing else to be learned here. This is where he kept her, and he intended us to know it. He even left crumbs for us to find. Now why was that, do you suppose?"

"Carelessness," said Jane, "And arrogance."

"No, Watson, no!" said Sherlock emphatically, "Moriarty is never careless. He has left them here for a reason. Let us find this barn. There is something . . . some clue, something done, or left undone, which will give us the key."

But Jane knew that Sherlock was speaking more in hope than knowledge. He would never admit it, but she had seen in him a streak of kindness that didn't always sit well with reason. Of course, she never said so to him.

There were only a few farms left in the area, and even fewer with barns. The most obvious one was just outside of town, but Holmes insisted that they first try the second most obvious, which was a little farther out.

The barn was just like Jenny described it. Holmes immediately entered to begin his search, but Jane was skeptical.

"Holmes," she said, "Do you really expect to find anything like footprints, hair, or whatever with all of this straw? We – "

Holmes cut her off with a triumphant shout as he held up a little white sock.

"What?" said Jane angrily, "So it's Jenny's sock. She was here. How exactly does this help us?"

Holmes responded by looking at his watch. "It is half-past one already!" he said with desperate urgency, "We have no time to lose at all. Take us back to your uncle's house as fast as the car can go!"

Jane kept her foot on the gas the whole way back, and when they got inside, she saw on the clock that it was only a few minutes 'til two.

Holmes ran into Hunt's office, held up the sock and yelled, "Bloodless! Tell me, what time does the ice-cream man play?"

Hunt looked at Holmes like he'd lost mind.

"Believe me, sir," said Holmes fiercely, "I am deadly earnest! Your daughter will be perfectly safe until the ice-cream man comes . . ."

"You're nuts, kid!" yelled Hunt, "I've known Percy Bradford almost my entire life! He wouldn't – "

"With no intent," said Holmes, "It is the tune he plays. Look!" He held up the sock. "You see, it has no blood on it! This was left where Moriarty wishes us to believe he held her last night, and that this sock was somehow left behind. But it is not so. It is no doubt her sock, but taken from the FIRST kidnap when you were not guarding her, having no reason for concern."

"What difference does it make?" asked Hunt.

"Send for the ice-cream man, and I will show you," said Holmes, "Have him come to the gates as is his custom, but immediately, now in daylight, and play his tunes."

While Hunt ran off to call Percy, Holmes grabbed Watson by the arm and moved for the staircase. "Come," he ordered, "I might need you, Watson."

* * *

About a half-hour later, Watson and Holmes sat in the nursery with Jenny, waiting for the ice-cream truck to begin playing. Finally, as it arrived, the lilting sound of _The Entertainer_ began to fill the air.

Jenny suddenly became still, and sat as straight as a board. Her pupils dilated to the point where her irises almost disappeared. Finally, she got up and walked out of the room.

"Follow her," said Sherlock to Jane quietly, "but do not touch her. You may harm her if you do." Accompanied by Josephine, the three of them followed Jenny on tip-toes as she climbed up the stairs, into the attic, and finally stopped at a small cupboard. There, she wrapped a blanket around herself and closed the door.

Holmes turned to Josephine and said, "When the clock strikes eleven, I believe she will awaken and return to normal, confused but not physically injured. She will believe what she has been hypnotized to believe, that she was again taken by Professor Moriarty, as she was in truth the first time. No doubt he took her to several different places, and she will recall them in successive order, as he has told her. You will wait here so you can comfort her when she awakens and comes out, no doubt confused and frightened. Do not disturb her before that."

A few hours later, both Jane and Sherlock sat on the plane that would take them back to Seattle. Jane was tired, but she was also pleased with herself. She had managed to help Holmes score a decisive victory over Moriarty, and proved her worth, if only to herself, as a Baker Street Irregular.

"Tomorrow, Uncle Rob will issue a statement denying any rumor that he might sell his holdings in the mine," said Jane.

Holmes nodded and replied, "I had Mycroft advise him that, if he can raise the funds, it would be advantageous to purchase a slight amount of more stock. We must not allow Moriarty to imagine that he was won anything, don't you agree?"

"I do," said Jane, "Do you think Jenny will be okay?"

"Of course, my dear Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "A visit or two to a competent psychiatrist, and Jenny's mind will be purged of Moriarty's evil influence."

"Yeah," said Jane, yawning, "You did good, Holmes."

"No, Watson," said Sherlock, "WE did good."

* * *

**_(A/N: Jane's getting the hang of the game. Please Review.)_**

TO BE CONTINUED.


	9. A Short Comedic Interlude

_**(A/N: Sorry that it's been so long. I've been really busy. Unfortunately, the next chapter isn't quite ready yet (My name is 2wingo, and I'm a chronic Procrastinator). So in the meantime, I thought you'd all enjoy a number of hilarious jokes relating to Sherlock Holmes and Watson (whether Sir Doyle's Dr. John Hamish Watson or my Jeanette "Jane" Helene Watson). Please Read and Review.)**_

* * *

"Good afternoon, ladies," said Sherlock Holmes to three women sitting on a Seattle park bench.

"Do you know those women?" asked his faithful companion Jane Watson.

"No," said Holmes as the pair continued walking, "I do not know the spinster, the prostitute, and the new bride."

Jane looked shocked and said, "If you don't know them, how do you know that they are what you say?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," said Holmes, glancing back, "Do you observe how they are eating bananas?"

"So?"

"Well, Watson, the spinster holds the banana in her left hand and uses her right hand to break the banana into small pieces which she puts into her mouth."

"I see what you mean, Holmes. What about the prostitute?"

"She holds the banana in both hands and crams it into her mouth."

"Holmes, you've surpassed yourself! But how did you know that the third one is a new bride?"

"Simple," said Holmes, "She holds the banana in her left hand and uses her right hand to push her head towards the banana."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes dies and goes to Heaven. There is a brouhaha. Sherlock Holmes asks St. Peter what seems to be the problem. Apparently, Adam has gone 'walkabout' among all the souls. It will take ages to find him. Holmes tracks down Adam, very quickly.

The Lord asks Holmes how he recognized Adam among the millions of souls, without ever having met him.

"Elementary, my dear God, he has no navel."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson went on a camping trip. After sharing a good meal and a bottle of Petrie wine, they retire to their tent for the night.

At about three a.m., Holmes nudges Watson and asks, "Watson, look up into the sky and tell me what you see."

Watson said, "I see millions of stars."

Holmes asks, "And, what does that tell you?"

Watson replies, "Astronomically, it tells me there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Theologically, it tells me that God is great and we are small and insignificant. Horologically, it tells me that it's about three in the morning. Meteorologically, it tells me that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you, Holmes?"

Holmes retorts, "Someone stole our bloody tent!"

* * *

One day, Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson were doing their usual investigative business, when they uncovered an unusual painting.

At first glance, it looked like a picture of a normal oak tree, in the middle of a wilderness, but if one looked closer, one could see that it was a remarkable painting. The tree trunk was actually made of fire, and its branches were made of ice, clouds and earth.

"What is it, Holmes?" asked Watson in awe.

"It's an Element tree, my dear Watson," replied Holmes.

* * *

Holmes and Watson are taking a trip across a desert by hot-air balloon. There are not many landmarks; so eventually, they become lost. Luckily, while flying quite low, they see a man.

Holmes shouts, "Sir, could you please tell me where we are?"

The man looks up, ponders for a moment, and then answers, "Friends, you are in a hot-air balloon!"

At this moment, a burst of wind picks up the balloon and carries it away.

Holmes turns to Watson and asks: "My friend, do you know who that man is?"

"No, Holmes, of course not!"

"He's a mathematician."

"Holmes, that's incredible! But _how_ do you know?"

"It's very simple, Watson. First of all, the man thought before giving us an answer. Secondly, his answer was absolutely correct. And thirdly, the answer he gave us was of no practical use, whatsoever!"

* * *

_**(I'll have the next chapter soon. I swear. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	10. The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

_**(A/N: Okay, here we go: My interpretation of "The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet." Rashid Akhmedov's likeness of Nikolaj Lie Kaas. Please Read & Review.)**_

**Dedication:** Major thanks to KCS, without whom I would still be stuck on this.

**The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet**

* * *

**London, Great Britain**

It was a typical night at Buckingham Palace, not unlike any other night. The Queen was sleeping peacefully, the guards were on relaxed alert, and tourists and natives alike walked the streets of Great Britain's most populous city.

_It is a good night for making history,_ thought Rashid Akhmedov. Situated in the back of his van, he typed feverishly at his computer. Finally, he was in; he'd managed to hack the security system for Buckingham Palace.

Picking up his walkie-talkie, he activated the encryption process. When this was done, he pressed the radio transmission button.

"_Allez,_" came the voice on the other end.

"_Je l'ai fait,_" replied Rashid, _"Les appareils-photo auront lieu vers le bas en exactement quatre minutes._"

"_Bon_," said the voice at the other end, "_Vous tenez la montre et me gardez avez informé. Je ferai le repos. Au-dessus de et dehors._" And the line went dead.

Rashid took a deep, calming breath and turned his attention back to the monitor. If this job went as planned, both he and his partner could retire in luxury. He could finally return to his homeland, his coffers overflowing with enough money to fund the liberation of Nagorno-Karabakh from Azerbaijan's control. But if it failed . . . well, may God have mercy on their souls.

* * *

**Somewhere in the Pacific Northwest**

"We've been goin' at it hard and heavy for the last few hours."

"We shall soon see if my experience trumps your beginner's luck, Watson."

"I've been coming in ahead since we first came out here, Holmes."

"It is a big lake, Watson," said Sherlock, "And the fish are many." But in spite of his confident words, Jane would continue to catch three fish for every one of Sherlock's.

To celebrate spring break, Holmes had invited Watson to join him on a camping trip at a small hunting lodge his parents owned in Oregon. In the week they'd been there, he'd managed to teach her the basics of fencing, boxing, and the Nightclub Two Step, but she'd truly excelled at fishing.

"Oh, yeah," said Watson loudly as she brought in another largemouth bass, "That makes it Jane: 15, Sherlock: 5."

"I prefer the zen-like state of mind that comes with merely going through the motions," grumbled Sherlock, "It matters little who has caught more."

"Said the loser to the winner," said Jane sassily with a flick of her raven-black hair.

"Oh, do sod off, Watson," snapped Sherlock, who began rowing the boat back toward the dock.

"Don't get your undies in a twist, Holmes," said Jane, softer this time, "I'm just teasing. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Ah, Watson," replied Sherlock with a smile, "I can never stay rancorous towards you for too long. Let us return to the cabin and make a proper repast of these fine _Centrarchidae_."

A short time later, the pair sat down by the campfire to fish, rice, and various freeze-dried greens.

"This is great, Holmes," said Jane, digging in, "My God, how do you make this rice so rich?"

"Coconut oil," said Holmes, "the most stable of all cooking oils due to its high amount of saturated fats. Lasts for up to two years without becoming rancid."

"Amazing," said Jane, "On top of being a full-time consulting detective, a straight-A student, and an amateur kickboxer, you're an excellent cook. Is there anything you CAN'T do well?"

"Hold down stable relationships, inasmuch as I have them," said Holmes with more bitterness than he'd intended. They quickly changed the subject.

"So, when we go back tomorrow," said Jane, taking a third helping of trout, "Think we'll have any major cases?"

"I certainly hope so, Watson," said Sherlock, adding another log to the fire, "Inactivity and I do not make a fine pair."

"I just can't wait to get home," said Jane, staring up at the stars, "I'm really starting to miss Marty."

Holmes rolled out their sleeping bags and said, "How are things between you and the quarterback?"

"Alright," she said nonchalantly.

"Just 'alright?'"

"No," said Jane with a romantic sigh, "It's wonderful. I really think that I love Marty, and that he loves me. He's just so sweet, sensitive, and handsome . . ."

"That'll do, Watson," said Sherlock, an edge in his voice, "You know I abhor bathos."

"You asked," replied Jane simply.

Checking his watch and realizing how late it was, Sherlock took a bucket of wet sand and dumped it on the fire, making sure it was completely out before crawling into his own sleeping bag.

"Goodnight, Watson."

"'Night, Holmes."

* * *

**2 Days Later**

Jane was sitting in the living room doing her homework when her cellphone beeped. Checking it, she found a text message from Sherlock

_COME IMMEDIATELY._

She put on her shoes and ran next door. She found Sherlock, Mycroft, and their father sitting by the heath, reading a letter.

"Come in, Jane," said Mr. Holmes, "We've been expecting you."

"What's up?" she asked, sitting.

"A case that goes far above and beyond anything you and my brother have accomplished," said Mycroft.

"The Queen's birthday is in one week," said Mr. Holmes, "The Prime Ministers of the Commonwealth have worked their fingers to the bone in preparation of a party for Her Majesty, but now a great scandal has raced across England: The Beryl Coronet has been stolen!"

The room was filled with a hushed silence until Jane tentatively asked, "What is the Beryl Coronet?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and said, "It was a crown, commissioned by James Francis Edward Stuart, Prince of Wales, for his heir apparent, Charles Edward Stuart. They were the last Catholic kings of England, and are known to this day as 'The Pretenders.'"

"The Beryl Coronet is unique," continued Sherlock, "Its morganite beryls, of which there are almost forty in number, are of the best quality and of enormous size, while the gold chasing alone is priceless. On the whole, it is completely irreplaceable."

"And it was stolen?" asked Jane.

"From Buckingham Palace," said Mr. Holmes, "More curious still is the fact that the room in which the Coronet is kept is right next to Her Majesty's boudoir, yet she heard nothing during the night."

"What evidence was left behind?" asked Jane.

"None," said Mycroft, "Absolutely none. But it can be said almost certainly that, barring the gossip, it was the work of a group, not an individual."

"The cameras around the palace experienced an electrical surge around 11:00 _post meridiem_," said Sherlock, "All of the guards were placed on full alert."

"And yet they were overpowered," said Mr. Holmes, "and by all accounts, it was just one man. This has lead some of them to speculate supernatural forces at work."

"Rubbish," snapped Holmes, "Come now, Father, you cannot believe that a bogeyman robbed the Queen's palace."

"Regardless of what I believe," said Mr. Holmes, "the Beryl Coronet has been stolen. The Prime Minister wishes to hire the two of you to find and recover it before the Queen's birthday in three days time."

"If the cause of the crown's disappearance is truly supernatural in origin, than Watson and I will be of little help," said Holmes, "However, if it is due to a more material cause, as I suspect it is, than we shall do anything and everything we can. Watson?"

Jane thought for a minute. She'd never helped Sherlock with anything this high profile before, and it sounded like it could be dangerous. On the other hand, this was obviously very important to Sherlock, and she couldn't just let him down. Finally, her mind was made up.

"I'm in."

* * *

20 hours later, Watson and Holmes sat in the first-class compartment of a Trans-Atlantic flight to London.

"How much longer?" said Jane, her voice bordering on a whine.

"Do try to be patient, Watson," said Sherlock, "It shall be only an hour more until we reach the Queen's realm." He tapped his black Rolex to emphasize his point.

"Speaking of that," she replied, "What's the game plan? I mean, do we even know what to look for?"

"I admit that, superficially, I can deduce very little," said Holmes, "That the thieves were professionals is a given, as is the fact that the parties responsible are the same as those which perpetrated the thefts of such jewellery as the Eye of India ruby, the jade Dragon of Fu Sang, and the world's largest pink sapphire, which resides, or rather, once resided, in Qurac. Finally, it can be inferred the thief who actually commits the crime possesses a certain moral code."

"The job is too big for any one man. Therefore, there are at least two," said Watson, "More than that would draw too much attention. All of those crime shared similar traits: computers were involved, whoever was guarding the treasures was completely overpowered, and yet none of them met with lethal force, even though men have killed and been killed for a lot less."

"Yes, Watson, yes!" said Holmes, smiling like a child at Christmas, "You have finally learned to observe and deduce."

"Well," said Jane, "I actually guessed on most of that, because I've never heard of any of those thefts. How have you?"

"I have a subscription to several international newspapers," said Holmes, "and the aforementioned baubles have been appearing in black markets all over the world. Regardless, your logic is sound."

"But there's one big question, Holmes," said Jane, "Who could pull off a robbery like this? It would take a master thief to even get close to the Coronet, much less get it out of Buckingham Palace."

"That, my dear Watson," said Holmes, "Is precisely the information we must uncover."

* * *

The plane landed at London Heathrow Airport right on schedule. While Jane was collecting their bags, she noticed Holmes talking to a pair of men in official uniforms. Shaking their hands, he returned to Watson's side.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"The governors of the former territories never actually retired," said Holmes, "They simply became 'inactive.' Fortunately, it does not say this on my father's credentials. How else would I be able to smuggle this past the airport security?" He opened his jacket to reveal a Smith & Wesson M19 hanging from his waist.

"Aren't firearms illegal in this country?" asked Jane quietly.

"Almost," said Sherlock, "Which is why we must be extremely careful, Watson."

Outside, they hailed a cab and directed it to Buckingham Palace. Minutes later, They found themselves in the Coronet's former resting place. Holmes and Watson both put on sterile hospital booties and latex gloves so they wouldn't contaminate the crime scene.

Watson snapped a few pictures and said, "Okay, we've got the crime scene before we entered it, now let's look for clues."

Holmes said nothing, but simply began to search the room. Watson took out a miniature spray bottle of Silk Black Latent Powder and began dusting the doorknob, windows, and display case for fingerprints. She found absolutely none.

"Look here, Watson," said Holmes eventually, pointing at the carpet, "A footprint." She looked and, sure enough, there was a faint impression on a rug near the place where the coronet was set.

"I deduce that it is from a man's oxford shoe," said Holmes, "size eight-and-a-half, possibly brogued cap seams, hard-soled, and made of leather. I should think his weight on the light side of 70 kilograms, and an estimated 1.8 meters in height."

"And that would be . . . ?" asked Jane.

"Roughly five feet, ten inches; 154 pounds. It is safe to assume that his weight is muscle mass, as an abdominous individual would not be capable of moving as the guards saw him do."

Holmes then stood and gestured for Jane to follow him out.

"There is nothing else to be gathered here, Watson," he said, "Perhaps testimony from the guards will shed light on this conundrum."

The guards in question were six in number, and at Sherlock's behest, they were all assembled in room where the cameras were kept, as were the technicians present on the night in question.

Sherlock questioned each one separately, but got the same answer each time: The lights had died around the same time as the cameras went haywire, and all of them were placed upon full alert. Each of them had encountered the intruder as he made his way toward the room containing the Beryl Coronet. Each of them described the intruder as athletic to an inhuman degree, capable of making leaps and kicks with force that no normal human could muster.

"I refuse to believe it, Watson," said Sherlock to Jane, back in their hotel room, "Those guards are under the impression that the Beryl Coronet was stolen by Spring-Heeled Jack! By Jove, it's as if we have all thrown our minds back into the Dark Ages!"

"First of all," said Jane, absently typing at her laptop, "'Dark Ages' is a little eurocentrically biased, as it wasn't a global dark age. Second, who or what is Spring-Heeled Jack?"

"An urban legend from the era of Queen Victoria," said Holmes, "Purportedly, he was a demonic being capable of making enormous leaps through the air, and vanishing into shadows. Most sightings agree that he dressed as a gentleman, with a black cloak that hid most of his features. He was said to have attacked a number of women, but on the whole was more mischievous than malicious. The last sighting of any such being was in 1997."

"Sounds like a lot of junk, to me," said Watson.

"That it is, Watson," replied Holmes, "That it is. But we have no more time to speculate on the validity of a fairytale. Right now, we must pay a visit to an old acquaintance of mine. And, I'll need you to change your clothes, Watson."

"What?" asked Jane, not following.

Holmes walked over to the closet and withdrew several . . . less than modest items of feminine couture.

"No," said Watson quickly, "No way. Holmes, don't you even think about it."

* * *

**The banking firm of Holder & Stevenson**

Arthur Holder returned from his lunch break feeling very good about himself. His father had no idea about his use of bank funds for loan sharking, and his most recent business deal would add another five figures to his own personal account.

On his way to his office, he stopped by the receptionist's desk and discreetly asked, "Did the florist send my order yet?"

"Um," said the receptionist, rubbing the back of his neck, "There was a problem, sir. You ordered a Japanese rose, but they got mixed up and sent you an American Beauty rose instead."

"How old is she?" asked Holder.

"Younger than you requested, sir," replied the receptionist, "She's only 17."

Holder shrugged and said, "Very well. If Job could endure his difficulties, I suppose I must endure mine."

He climbed the steps and entered his office. Lounging on his couch was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, wearing vinyl thigh boots, a plaid micro-skirt, and a black spandex tube-top.

"My, my" said Holder, licking his lips, "You're not what I expected, but you'll do nicely."

"Thank you," she giggled.

Just as Holder was about to remove his belt, he heard a loud click next to his ear.

"A Smith & Wesson Model 19," said Holder, "I only know three people who use a gun like that. Let me guess."

"A pleasure to see you again, Holder," said Holmes, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Business seems to be going well for you, is it not?"

"I suppose you could say that," said Holder, "but something tells me that you're not here to talk about banking, Holmes."

"On the contrary, Holder," said Holmes, "My associate and I are most deeply interested in banking; particularly wire-transfers associated with the theft of the Beryl Coronet."

"I don't know anything about that," said Holder.

Holmes eyed him carefully. The trickle of sweat down his cheek and the slight bob of his Adam's apple said different.

"Your mouth lies," said Holmes, "but your eyes speak the truth." Holmes swiftly kicked Holder in the back of the knees and pushed him forward onto his desk. He then jammed his revolver against Holder's temple.

"Okay, okay," said Holder, "I'll tell you! Last night, I got a call from someone; said they needed a lot of money to be moved real discreet-like, no questions asked. I said 'sure.' It amounted to well over a million euros, and they said that if it went off without a hitch, I'd get a fair cut."

"Who? When?" snapped Holmes.

"Around ten," said Holder, fear growing in his voice, "I don't know his name."

Holmes cocked the trigger on his gun.

"I swear, I don't know!" yelled Holder, "He didn't offer, so I didn't ask! He was tall, kinda thin, a bit pale, and he spoke with a French accent! He had this little black morocco case, and he said that it was the Beryl Coronet! He's coming back around 9:30 with the guy he's selling it to to make sure that all goes well! That's all I know! That's all I know!"

Holmes grabbed Holder by the shoulders and flipped him over to face him. "Are you certain that you have told me all? If you've omitted the slightest detail – "

"I don't know anything else!" screamed Holder, the stain in his crotch growing by the second.

Holmes then released Holder. "Thank you very much for your assistance," he said. He then slammed his elbow into Holder's face, knocking him across his desk and onto the floor.

"Come, Watson," said Holmes, "We must continue while the trail is hot."

* * *

"I should have known from the very beginning, Watson," said Holmes as they walked, "I had my suspicions after we examined the scene of the crime, but it took Holder's testimony to confirm them."

"Holmes," said Jane, "It's great that you know who we're looking for, but it's kinda hard to keep up with you while I'm wearing five-inch heels."

Holmes slowed his pace and said, "Forgive me, Watson."

"Already forgotten," said Jane, "Now, who are we looking for?"

"Arsène Lupin," said Holmes, "A gentleman thief if ever there was one. I met him, briefly, last year when I was in Montpellier. This is precisely the sort of crime he is wont to commit. It has everything: excitement, subterfuge, portability, surprise.

"Then why was he mistaken for Spring-Heeled Jack?" asked Jane.

"Lupin is a master of Capoeira," said Holmes, "an Afro-Brazilian martial art that combines intricate gymnastics with devastatingly powerful strikes. A perfect form for taking on multiple opponents at once."

"So the only question left is 'how do we find him?'"

"No," said Holmes, "we already know where he will be."

"But Holder'll probably tell him – "

"He will not," said Holmes, "Arthur Holder's cowardice is stronger even than his greed. That timorous swine will not dare cross me."

* * *

**Soho, West End of London, 9:45 that night**

"I still don't understand why you wanted me to come here," grumbled Holder as he typed away at his laptop, "It would be safer in my office."

"We want to make sure that everything goes as planned," said Rashid Akhmedov, "It is best for all concerned that we do this on neutral territory."

"Indeed," said a voice from the shadows. Rashid instinctively dropped his hand to his SIG P220, but relaxed when he saw it was Lupin.

"Damn it, Lupin," said Rashid, "Haven't I asked you to stop doing that?"

"Perhaps," said Lupin, "but it is fun to watch people jump in fear, _non_?"

"Anyway," said Holder, annoyed, "When's the buyer supposed to get here?"

Lupin checked his gold pocketwatch and said, "15 minutes."

Suddenly, the warehouse door opened and Holmes stepped in, keeping his Smith & Wesson trained on the three criminals.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Lupin, nonchalantly swinging his cane back and forth, "The year between our encounters has been kind to you, I hope."

"It has," said Holmes coolly, "Now, remain where you are. A team of agents from the Security Service is en route to arrest you."

"On what charges?" asked Lupin, showing every evidence of boredom.

"Conspiracy to steal and sell a national artifact," said Holmes.

"Enough time for us to have a little fun, _n'est-ce pas_?" Lupin threw his cane at Holmes' hand, knocking his gun across the room.

Rashid raised his gun, but Lupin held up a hand and said, "No, Rashid. I have this."

Lupin leapt into the air, whirling his body in an arc toward Sherlock, bringing his feet down toward his head.

Sherlock leapt to the side and allowed his knee to connect with Lupin's chin.

Lupin snapped back to his feet and began to perform the _ginga_. But before he could twist into another attack, Sherlock jumped up and struck the sides of Lupin's neck with his legs. He then twisted himself in the air and gave a flying kick to Lupin's chest. Holmes finished the assault with a powerful side kick to his forehead. Lupin fell to the ground in a heap.

BAM!

Both Holmes and Lupin stared at Rashid, who had fired his gun. He had shot, not at Holmes as they initially thought, but Holder.

"What have you done?!" roared Lupin, climbing to his feet, "Without Holder, we cannot complete the transfer!"

"Exactly," sneered Akhmedov, picking up the Coronet and aiming his pistol at Lupin, "You are a talented thief, Arsène, but my employer no longer requires your services. See you in Hell."

Rashid fired a second time, catching Lupin in the shoulder. He aimed at Holmes and attempted to fire again, but his SIG P220 had jammed. Throwing it down, he ran out into the streets.

* * *

Akhmedov ran like a man with Hell at his heels. He could hear Holmes' footfalls closing in on him with each passing minute. Finally, he saw his car.

He picked up speed, thinking, _Just a few seconds more, and I will have succeeded._

And he would have, had not a Volkswagen Scirocco suddenly pulled out in front of him, shattering his kneecaps and sending him flying.

As the coronet sailed through the air, Holmes caught it. He turned to the drive and said, "Well done, Watson."

"Thanks," she said climbing out, "but how did you know he'd come this way?"

"Elementary," said Holmes, "I followed him here. I deduced that he would naturally run for his vehicle after he betrayed Lupin."

"How'd you know he'd do that?"

"Look at the back of his neck, Watson."

Jane knelt down beside the unconscious man and pulled down his shirt collar. Burned into his neck was a brand, a reddish triangle inside a circle.

"Moriarty," said Jane, more contemptuously than she'd intended.

"Aye," said Holmes, "It was a rather difficult to recognize Rashid Akhmedov without his beard, but I have encountered him before. An underling that barely qualified to be one of Moriarty's Red Triangles."

Holmes turned his attention to the black case on the sidewalk. Within it, lined in flesh-colored velvet, was the Beryl Coronet.

* * *

_**(A/N: I offer no excuses for taking so long. Mainly because I'm too tired. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	11. Diary of Jane Watson Epilogue for ATBC

_**(Now that I've had a few hours of sleep, I can tie up all the loose ends I left in AOTBC. I'm thinking about having these little journals appear every few stories, so don't be afraid to tell me what you think. Please Read & Review the last chapter before you do this one.)**_

**Disclaimer:** Both Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin are in the public domain and can be freely used by anyone for both parodies and pastiches.

* * *

_April 17__th__, 2009_

_Dear Diary, it's been crazy the last few days. Holmes and I had to go to England to recover a stolen national treasure. _

_So, where to start? Well, the day after we got back from Oregon, I went out with Marty. Turns out his dad has really been pushing him to get that football scholarship to WSU. Good thing I'm around to tutor him in Algebra, because he's still struggling with it. _

_Then, the conversation took a turn for the worse: Marty wants me to work at going to WSU so we can be together working for my undergraduate before I go to medical school. But I'm working on going to Johns Hopkins, so WSU isn't even an option, really._

_Marty basically threw a fit at this, saying that as his girlfriend, I have an 'obligation.' I've never been so angry at him as I was then. I'm still waiting for him to call and apologize. God, he's lucky that he's so cute . . ._

_Anyway, it turns out that some ancient crown was stolen from Buckingham Palace, and the Prime Minister wanted us to find it. Believe me, you do not know boring until you've sat next to Sherlock Holmes on a plane for hours and hours. On the plus side, I've never traveled first-class before._

_So anyway, as soon as we landed, we went to Buckingham Palace to investigate. I would've enjoyed that tour if we'd had more time. _

_It was kinda cool seeing Holmes in his element. I mean, we've done it before, but it never ceases to amaze me, the way the rest of the world goes out the window and he can focus on nothing else. Wow, that sounded naughty._

_Where was I? Oh yeah. Then he makes me go 'undercover' as a hooker so I can get into this guy's office and unlock the window so Holmes can sneak it. I never quite understood the meaning of the term 'pistol-whip' until Holmes went off on the guy. I'd never say this to anyone but you, but dressing up like that didn't really bother me as much as I let on. I mean, I don't wanna be a hooker, but I don't mind dressing sexy, either._

_So by now, Holmes knew who we were looking for, but surprise, surprise, he wouldn't give me all the details. I hate the way he does that. Personally, I think he just enjoys explaining everything at once because it makes him look so smart. Of course, he is REALLY smart._

_So Holmes tells me to wait with a car he got from somewhere (I didn't ask). Half an hour later, this guy comes running across the street like a bat out of Hell. Holmes signaled me with his hand, so the drove the car forward enough to hit the guy. When he hit the pavement and didn't move, my heart stopped for a minute. The idea that I might have killed someone was almost too much._

_Fortunately, I just knocked him out cold. Turns out he was one of Moriarty's goons._

_Now here's where things get weird: Holmes told me that the thief, a Frenchman named Arsène Lupin, was shot and taken to the hospital under a guard of MI5 agents. But almost 20 minutes after his wound was dressed, he completely disappeared. I guess he deserved that reputation._

_Holmes had some pretty bad bruises, himself. Apparently, Lupin kicked like a mule. Good thing Holmes knew what to expect from him, or he could be dead now._

_In retrospect, it's really cool that Holmes and I were able to get the Beryl Coronet back. I feel like I've really justified his faith in me by bringing me into the BSI._

_Well, gotta go. Marty's calling, and I think I'm ready to hear him beg like a dog. _

_Love, Jane XOXO_

* * *

Moriarty sat in the armchair of his penthouse, staring out at Seattle as rain pounded the dark city. He sensed another presence in the room, but said nothing until the figure extinguished the candle which served as his only light.

"_Monsieur_ Lupin," said Moriarty, guessing.

"_Oui_," said an angry voice from the shadows. Moriarty surreptitiously looked at the mirror on the adjacent wall, and was just able to make out Lupin, his arm in a sling.

"What brings you here at this time of night?" asked Moriarty, genuinely unaffected, "As I recall, you are a wanted criminal in this country."

"I may be a thief, _Professeur_," said Lupin, "But I would not stoop to such lows as you have. I know what sort of man Sherlock Holmes is. Someday, he will come for you, and you will be powerless to stop it. And when that day comes, Arsène Lupin may well be at his side."

The slight _thud_ of a window, and Lupin was gone. For many minutes, Moriarty sat, his thoughts growing dark and dark. Finally, he stood and looked at himself in the mirror. Seizing a small statuette, he hurled it at the mirror, shattering the glass.

* * *

_Allez - _Go

_Je l'ai fait._ _Les appareils-photo auront lieu vers le bas en exactement quatre minutes_ - I did it. The cameras will go down in exactly four minutes

_Bon. Vous tenez la montre et me gardez avez informé. Je ferai le repos. Au-dessus de et dehors_ - Good. You hold the watch and keep me informed. I will do the rest. Over and out

* * *

_**(A/N: I solemnly swear that, baring extreme circumstances, it will never take me so long to update ever again. Please Review.)**_


	12. Poker Night

_**(A/N: I know you guys were expecting another adaptation, but you'll have to contend with a Stage 3 story. I've been on a long road trip, so please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had encountered many things in his short life. In just 17 years, he'd lived in China, England, and America; he'd started a successful business as one of the world's finest consulting detectives; he'd made mortal enemies with a Chechen mobster of comparable age and intelligence; He'd started an irregular police made up of street urchins and wayward youths; but in all that time, he'd never seen a girl of Jane Watson's age who could shuffle cards like a Las Vegas dealer.

"Okay, boys," said Jane, looking at the other players, "The name of the game is Texas hold 'em. I have agreed to act as the dealer throughout the game. The most you can raise is 10 dollars, and the limit is 200 dollars each."

It was the first time that Jane been invited to Holmes' monthly poker game with his three oldest Irregulars. She took a minute to assess the players: Henry Thornton, an Arkansas hillbilly and marksman _par excellence_; Eddie Lau, a Cantonese martial arts expert; Sherlock himself; and lastly, Sam Wiggins, a Jamaican raised by Irish foster parents and master of Parkour.

"Now, Gentlemen," said Holmes, "I want a fair game out of all of you."

"That'll be a first for the Black Irish," drawled Thornton, adjusting the brim of his cowboy hat.

"Would ye care to be sayin' that to my face, ye faggot-ass redneck?" growled Wiggins from across the table.

"Can we just play poker now and stop this?" asked Eddie, stroking his soul-patch absently.

"Ain't that just like a lascar," sneered Wiggins, "Stickin' his nose in where it don't belong."

"EXCUSE me?" snapped Eddie, standing, "What did you just call me?"

"Enough," said Sherlock, calmly but firmly, "Watson, would you be so kind as to deal and put an end to this foolishness?"

"Gladly," she said, dealing out the cards.

"Well, long as we're all gon' be real friendly-like," said Thornton, "I ever tell you guys 'bout the first time I met Sherlock, here?"

"Never," said Eddie, looking at his cards.

"Weeelll, then," said Thornton, "Hope ỳall don't mind if I spin ya that particular yarn."

* * *

**Henry Thornton's Tale**

_Alright, so a year'r two ago, I was down in Little Rock for a week, on account o' summer vacation, an' I was lookin' for a nice little honey to kiss. 'Bout an hour into my bar crawlin', I found one. And boy, did I find one. Hay colored hair, big eyes, an' legs longer'n the Mississippi River._

_So we go down this nice lil alley to make the beast with two backs, when 'er boyfriend comes along, lookin' for 'er. Now he don't like what he sees, so he starts expressin' various opinions on my hygiene, my hat, and my me-maw. He comes up to me, fixin' to start a fight, so I casually lift up my jacket and show 'im my purty lil gun. He backs off, but I reckon he could stand to learn some manners, so I kick him where the sun don't shine. He goes down, and I start punching 'is face. When all of the sudden, some high and mighty voice calls out, "Leave him alone."_

_So I looks up, and I see this handsome lookin' feller, standin' so straight you could use his back like a yardstick._ _Course, it weren't so much his posture that sent shivers up my spine as his eyes. They were gray, like the metal of a gun, and didn't have no emotion. Yessir, I could tell from the get go that this dude feared no man, nor anythin' else._

_Anyway, I stood up, puffed out my chest, and told him to mind his business. What was going on with me and the feller on the ground had nothin' t'do with him, and he should just be on his way._

_And he just stands there, and he don't smile or frown or nothin'. He just says "When a man imposes his will upon another man without that other's informed consent, it becomes my business." He's talkin' in this real grand British accent, like he's some kinda rich boy. Then he pulls back his jacket, and sure enough, he got a gun, too. _

_By now, the feller on the ground's long gone, and I don't much care for some limey gettin' in my affairs. Our hands'r both about 10 inches from our guns, so it comes down to who can draw an' shoot first. What this feller don't know is that I got 0.3 second quick-draw_.

_Quick as a flash, I unholster my piece and aim. But just 'fore I pull the trigger, the limey gets off a shot. I try to return fire, but my gun won't work. I check the barrel, and the sonuvabitch actually __**shot his bullet into my gun to keep me from firin'**__. _

"_Damn, stranger," says I, "That's some mighty fine shootin'." _

"_A skill," he says, "nothing more. Simple physics and geometry. Your reflexes, on the other hand. An act of instinct that cannot be taught. Should you be able to do so at will, perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."_

"_What'd ya have in mind?" I asked, really cool-like. _

"_A chance to oppose a monster," he said, "An opportunity to be part of something great. And the possibility of offering hope to those whom the law has failed to deliver justice unto."_

"_Stranger," says I, "Now your speakin' my language." _

* * *

"An' here I am," said Thornton, "An' it looks like I got a San Francisco weddin': Two queens."

"I fold," said Eddie, reaching into the communal bucket of KFC and grabbing a drumstick.

"A mildly divertin' tale, to be sure," said Wiggins, running a hand through his dreadlocks, "But I'm willin' to bet that I can trump that."

* * *

**Sam Wiggins' Tale**

_I'm afraid that I'll ne'er know my birth parents. At the wee age of one, I was adopted by an Irish couple on vacation in Jamaica. _

_T'weren't easy, growin' up black in Dublin. Ye can stay a sheep, or ye can be a wolf. And make yourself no mistake, by the time I was 13, I was the meanest feckin' Irishman ta ever walk the Auld Sod._

_Flash forward to three years ago. My parents and I moved to Boston to work on the cause. They were in the IRA, you see. I had no desire te fight for a country that hated me, so I struck off on me own. _

_A month later, I was runnin' a game o' Three-Card Monte outta Hell's Kitchen in New York. I'd been doin' well, when suddenly, this lad comes up, no older than me, and dressed in an Inverness cape, of all things. _

"_What is the objective of this game?" he asked me. I could tell right off he was a Brit, and a high-class one, at that. Exactly why a rich lad like this would be stalkin' 'round Hell's Kitchen at twilight escapes me, but I hardly cared._

"_It's really quite simple," I say to him, "Ye only have to the follow the Queen. 10'll get ye 20, if ye're lucky enough to find her."_

"_I accept your challenge," said the Brit, and he threw down a hundred._

_Now, I could just barely cover that amount, but this poor bastard had no idea what the game was even about. There was no possible way he could be winnin'._

_So I flip over the Ace o' Clubs, the Ace o' Spades, and the Queen o' Hearts. I shuffle 'em around until I'm sure that the lad's confused. An' with the way I tossed the cards, there's no way in Hell he could've followed the Queen._

_So imagine my surprise when he turns th' middle card over and reveals the Queen!_

"_It would appear that I have won," said the smug little bastard. Now, there're other people around, so I can't cause as much a scene as I should like. So I give him the money and he leaves._

_I inspected the deck later to see what went wrong, an' I found an extra Queen in the deck. It were uncreased, unlike the cards I'd used in the game. Then, it hit me: that fuckin' bastard musta had a card up his sleeve!_

_Now, Samuel McGinty Wiggins ain't one let an insult go. I saw the fucker go down Fifth Avenue, so I go down it, hopin' to find him. And as soon as I go past the Plaza Hotel, pay dirt: I see him_ _headin' for Central Park._

_Now, my da was old-fashioned, and like any good Irishman, he wanted me to know the _Na hEalaíona Troda Éireannacha_, or martial arts of the ancient Celts. I figured that this limey was as soft an' weak as most o' the Brits, so he'd be easy to take down._

"_Hey, Jeeves!" I called out to get his attention. He turned and looked at me, but didna say a thing. _

_I'm not a man of words, so I charged in with some basic _Dornálaíocht_, or bare-knuckle boxing . . . and got knocked on me arse._

"_Wanna play rough, do ye, boyo?" I asked him, standing. He was fast, no denyin', but that couldn'a been more'n a lucky shot._ _I decided to throw some _Speachóireacht_, or kickin', at him at this time, figurin' that'd do more damage, but he just blocked it._

"_Are you a fighter, or a dancer?" he said. This feckin' bombay shitehawk was insultin' me again!_

_Now, I was royally fumin'. I grabbed a stick from the ground and went into _Batadóireacht_, the stick-fightin' art._ _The blow woulda killed the bastard, but I swear to fuckin' Bran, he moved like lightnin'._ _Grabbed my arm and threw me arse over tit._

"_You are skilled," he said, lookin' over me, "but you have much to learn."_

"_An' I suppose you're the one to be teachin' me?"_ _I said sarcastically._

"_If you wish it," he said, holdin' out his hand to help me, "I could use one such as you, back in Seattle."_

* * *

"An' I been here, ever since," said Wiggins, "And sure 'n begorrah, I got th' numbers tattooed on Moriarty's skull: three 6s!"

"I fold," said Eddie, throwing down his cards.

"Your turn, Eddie," said Jane, "tell us how you met Holmes."

"All right," said Eddie, "I was trying to pick his pocket when he was in Chinatown last year, and he broke my fingers. After paying to have them fixed, we fought a little duel. When it was over, he asked me to join the Irregulars, and here I am."

The room was silent for a minute, until Jane finally said, "Okay, that was very . . . boring."

"Like you can do better?" said Eddie, grabbing a diet Coke and chugging it.

"Maybe I can," said Jane, crossing her arms, "the story of how I came face-to-face with Moriarty himself."

* * *

**Jane Watson's Tale**

_I was walking home from Marty's house a week ago, and my stomach started growling. I saw a little diner and figured I could give it a try._

_So I ordered a burger and a bowl of chili, and sat down. My table was near a jukebox, which was playing Patsy Cline's "Walking after Midnight."_

_I was reading a copy of Herodotus' __Histories__, when someone sat down across from me._

"_Good evening, Miss Watson," said a pleasant-sounding male voice. It was clipped and imperial, like how a Russian czar might speak. I looked up at his face. I would've thought that he was very handsome, if it wasn't for his cold, sinister-looking eyes._

"_Allow me to introduce myself," he said, holding out his hand, "I am Professor James Moriarty."_

"_I know who you are," I replied, trying not to sound scared, even though I was, "Your name is written on all the men's room stalls under 'Call for a good time.'"_

_He just laughed; a soft, mirthless laugh._

"_You must be talking about me," said a honey-sweet voice. I turned to look and a beautiful girl sat down next to Moriarty. _

_I recognized Irene Adler from the photo in Holmes' room. She smiled just like Moriarty, and had the same calculating look in her eyes._

"_I have taken the liberty," said Moriarty, "of ordering food for the both of us, to be delivered here. We have much to discuss."_

"_No, we don't," I said, trying to be cool, "I have nothing to say to either of you."_

"_Now, now, Miss Watson," said Moriarty, "Surely. We can be civilized here. I wish only to offer you a chance at greatness."_

"_You mean leave Holmes' Irregulars," I said._

_He nodded and said, "Sherlock Holmes is one of the most brilliant persons I know, make no mistake about that. However, he simply fails to under the most basic tenants of Darwin: It is the fittest who will thrive best. And we are the fittest. I am a wolf, Miss Watson, and live by a wolf's laws. Naturally, the sheep will describe the wolf as a criminal. Holmes has made the mistake of living by the laws of the sheep. That is precisely the reason why he shall ultimately fail against me."_

"_Your reasoning is not supported by fact," I told him, "Your attempt to take my uncle's land and the theft of the Beryl Coronet were both stopped by Holmes and I."_

"_A few small parts of a great machine," he said, "Hardly noticeable and easily repaired. The combined police forces of the Seattle/Tacoma area have failed to even slow my network's progress. What can your small band of irregulars do?"_

"_We can help," I said, "We can pick up where the police give up. We can be there for people who've been wronged by you. And we can give them hope."_

_At that, Irene started laughing, like I'd just told the world's funniest joke. "Such optimism," she purred, trailing her finger across my neck._

"_Should you decide to take the logical path," said Moriarty, handing me a card, "Do not hesitate to contact me."_

_I took the card, and promptly crumpled it up._

"_That was not wise, Miss Watson," said Moriarty, now looking angry, "Be forewarned: When Holmes meets his downfall, you shall surely join him."_

* * *

There was a solemn silence for several minutes before Wiggins finally spoke, "Congrats to ye, Jeanie. Ye stared th' Dragon right in th' eye, and ye came out on top." Unlike everyone else, Wiggins was in the habit of calling Watson "Jeanie," short for her full name, Jeanette.

"Not many of us coulda done the same," said Thornton, nodding.

"Indeed, Watson," said Holmes, "Though I am somewhat surprised that you did not ever tell me this."

"I was a little scared," admitted Watson, "Moriarty isn't exactly a reasonable person. Straight, in diamonds." Watson laid down her cards, revealing a straight flush.

All of the others, except Holmes, groaned, threw down their cards and money, and promptly left.

"Well, Holmes?" said Watson.

"A fine hand, Watson," said Holmes, smiling slightly, "but not fine enough." He showed her his cards: A royal flush.

"Darn it," she said under her breath, passing him the cash.

Minutes later, after they had spoken of this, that, and everything under the sun, Jane got ready to leave.

"Same time next month?" she asked as she got to the door.

Holmes nodded and said, "I look forward to it."

The two friends stood in silence, their eyes locked. Finally, Jane opened the door and left.

Holmes returned to the living room and sat down upon an armchair. Taking his viola out of its case, he slowly began playing.

* * *

_**(A/N: A proper chapter is already in the works. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	13. The Boscombe Valley Mystery

_**(A/N: Okay, Stage 1 story, with Stage 2 elements. Also, I'm thinking of having Jane dump Marty at some point. What do you guys think? Please Read & Review.)**_

**Special Notice:** Due to the floating timeline used in my story, no story can be said to have occurred at any particular time before or after another story, hence the discrepancies in dates and time.

* * *

It was a seasonable spring morning at the Morstan residence. Spring cleaning was in full swing, with Mrs. Morstan fussing over every little detail, Mr. Morstan grumbling about "that commie _feng shui_ crap," and their son and his girlfriend moving things around in the living room.

"Marty," giggled Jane Watson in mock horror and real delight, "How are we supposed to help clean up the house if you don't stop kissing my neck?"

"I don't really care," he said, running his tongue across her nape.

Jane turned to kiss his lips, but was stopped by the buzzing of her cellphone.

"Who is it?" said Marty, getting a little hot and bothered.

"A text message from Sherlock," said Jane, reading it.

_Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of Idaho in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave SeaTac by 11:15._

"Well?" said Marty, hugging Jane from behind, "What does he want?"

Jane sighed and said, "He needs my help on another out of state case. I've gotta go, or I'll miss the plane."

Marty gave sort of a pouty look, but said, "Okay. Go be a detective."

"Thanks, honey," she said, kissing him goodbye and then hurrying out.

"What the HELL was that?" said a voice from behind Marty. He turned to see his father, leaning in the doorway.

"She had to go," said Marty, shrugging, "it's her job, after all."

"You let your woman go off with another guy," said Frederick, shaking his head, "Boy, I must be too soft on you. If I'd done anything that stupid, your granddaddy, God rest his soul, woulda beat me like a redheaded stepchild. There's a lot of conversations I never had with you because I figured you didn't need to have 'um, but lettin' another guy hang around with your girl is givin' him the green light to go after her."

"Holmes wouldn't do that," said Marty, "He's an asexual cretin."

"Somehow," said Frederick, "I doubt that. And let me list the reasons: One, your girl's got those big, almond-shaped eyes. Two, she's got that creamy, peach-colored skin. Three, she's got legs from here to next Tuesday. And Four, she's got a badonkadonk butt; the good kind."

"Your point?" asked Marty.

"Just keep an eye on her," said Frederick, "You start letting that girl disrespect you, you ain't even a man."

* * *

Jane, fortuitously, was a very quick packer, and was at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport at 10:55. She found Sherlock waiting for by the ticket counter, pacing.

"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he, "It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biased. If you will check the baggage, I shall get the tickets."

The compartment was largely empty, allowing Holmes to spread out his newspapers in the seat next to him. For most of the flight he read, with intervals of note-taking and meditation, until the plane went over Silver City, Idaho. He then crumpled up his papers and tossed them aside.

"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked Watson.

"No," admitted Jane, "I haven't read the paper in a few days."

"The Seattle press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

"That sounds a little paradoxical," said Jane.

"But it is profoundly true," said Holmes, "Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man."

"So it's a murder."

"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words."

Jane rolled her eyes comically. "A very few words" to Holmes were often a great deal of words to other people.

"Boscombe Valley is a small area not very far from Grand View, in Owyhee county. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, an Australian who came to America some years ago. One of the farms which he held was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an Australian. The men had known each other previously, so that it was not unnatural that when they came here they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighboring families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sports and were frequently seen at local high school games. McCarthy kept two servants – a butler and a maid. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts."

Holmes dug through his papers and took out a note sheet.

"On Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Grand View, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive."

"From Hatherley Farm to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a gamekeeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred."

"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded 'round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds 'round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moira, who is a resident of the nearby town, was in one of the woods hiking. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarreling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running into the town to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the police. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of first-degree murder having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought into custody to await his trial. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court."

"Sounds like he's screwed," remarked Jane, "If circumstantial evidence ever pointed to guilt, it does so here."

"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes thoughtfully, "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighborhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighboring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lieutenant Summerby, a local police detective with whom I am acquainted, to work out the case in his interest. Summerby, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that we two are flying eastward instead of quietly digesting our breakfasts at home."

"I'm not as good at this as you are, Holmes," said Jane, "but the facts are obvious. I don't think that the credit from this case will do our firm that much good."

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Summerby. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that we shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bathroom the window is upon the left-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Summerby would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."

"How -?"

"My dear Watson, I know you well. I know the neatness which characterizes you. You shave your legs every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the right side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get 'round the angle of the knee, it is surely very clear that the right side is less illuminated than the left. I could not imagine a woman of your habits looking at herself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my métier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."

"What are they?"

"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On being informed that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."

"So he confessed," injected Watson.

"No," said Holmes, "for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

Watson just shrugged. "Considering the series of events, it's still a suspicious thing to say."

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty one."

Watson shook her head and said, "Men have gone to jail on less evidence."

"So they have," replied Holmes, "And many men have been wrongfully imprisoned."

"What does McCarthy himself say?" asked Watson.

"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."

Watson took the paper from Holmes and read it carefully.

"_I've been away from home for the last three days, and I only just got back last Monday. My father was gone when I got there, and the maid told me that he'd left with John Cobb, the horse-keeper, to go riding. Shortly after my return, I heard Cobb with the horse in the yard, and, looking out my window, I saw Dad walking, though I didn't know which direction he was going. So I took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, thinking I'd check the rabbit warrens. On my way I saw William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he's already said; but I wasn't following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When I was about a hundred yards from the pool, I heard the cry 'Cooee!' which Dad and I used to communicate over long distances. I then saw him standing by the pool. He was surprised to see me, and rudely asked me what I was doing. Dad had a really bad temper, so we got angry and started exchanging fighting words. There was no talking to him when he was like this, so I turned back to Hatherley Farm. I hadn't gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a scream behind me, so I ran back. I found my father lying on the ground, with his head badly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he died almost instantly I stayed with him for a few minutes, and then I ran into town to get help. No one was there when I came back, and I have no idea how he got his injuries. He wasn't exactly a popular man, but I don't think he had any active enemies. I don't know anything else."_

This was followed by a transcription of the dialogue between McCarthy and the attending coroner.

_"The Coroner: 'Did your father make any statement to you before he died?'_

_"Witness: 'He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch something about a rat.'_

_"The Coroner: 'What did you understand by that?'_

_"Witness: 'It didn't mean anything to me. I thought he was delirious.'_

_"The Coroner: 'What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel?'_

_"Witness: 'I can't answer that.'_

_"The Coroner: 'I am afraid that I must press it.'_

_"Witness: 'I really can't tell you. I can only say that it had nothing to do with what happened to him.'_

_"The Coroner: 'That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.'_

_"Witness: 'I still can't tell you.'_

_"The Coroner: 'I understand that the cry of "Cooee" was a common signal between you and your father?'_

_"Witness: 'It was.'_

_"The Coroner: 'How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned?'_

_"Witness (with considerable confusion): 'I don't know.'_

_"The Coroner: 'Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?'_

_"Witness: 'Nothing definite.'_

_"The Coroner: 'What do you mean?'_

_"Witness: 'I was so shocked I could barely think of anything except my father. Yet, I have a vague impression that as I ran forward, something was on the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something gray, like a coat. I looked around after I got up, but it was gone.'_

_"'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'_

_"'Yeah, it was gone.'_

_"'You cannot say what it was?'_

_"'No, it was just a feeling.'_

_"'How far from the body?'_

_"'A dozen yards or so.'_

_"'And how far from the edge of the wood?'_

_"'About the same.'_

_"'Then if it was removed, it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?'_

_"'Yes, but with my back toward it.'_

_"This concluded the examination of the witness."_

"I see," said Watson as she glanced down the column, "that the coroner in his concluding remarks was pretty hard on McCarthy. He points out the discrepancy about his father having signaled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against him."

Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains," he replied, "to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favor. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, Watson, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now, here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We shall lunch when we arrive, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes."

He then pulled out a copy of Il Canzoniere and remained silent for the rest of the trip.

* * *

Due to delays, it was nearly four o'clock when Holmes and Watson found themselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for them on the platform. Watson didn't recognize him, but she was sure it was Summerby. He drove them to a small inn where Holmes had reserved a room for Watson and himself.

"I'll drive us out as soon as we finish lunch," said Summerby to Holmes, "I knew your energetic nature, and that you wouldn't be happy until you'd been on the scene of the crime."

"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered, "But it is entirely a question of barometric pressure."

"I'm sorry, _what_?" said Summerby, confused.

"How is the glass?" asked Holmes, looking at the barometer on the wall, "29, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a book here which needs reading, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall require your car tonight."

Summerby laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he said, "The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it gets. Still, I make it a point of honor to always try to help a lady in trouble. She's heard about you, and wants your opinion, though I repeatedly told her there was nothing which you could do which I hadn't already done. And it appears that she just pulled up."

Summerby had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room a pretty blond girl about Watson's age who introduced herself as Alice Turner. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing between Watson and Holmes, quickly overcoming her surprise at his youth, "I'm so glad that you came. I drove down here to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start knowing it, too. We've known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults better than anyone; but he wouldn't hurt a fly."

"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock, "You may rely upon my doing all that I can."

"But you read the evidence. You formed some conclusion? Any loopholes or flaws? Do you think he's innocent?"

"I think that it is very probable."

She threw back her head and gave Lestrade a look that suggested hope and defiance. He just shrugged his shoulders in response.

"I'm afraid that my _colleague_ has been a little quick in forming conclusions," he said, as though it hurt his tongue to call Sherlock his colleague.

"But he's right!" said Alice, "James didn't do it. And about his fight with his dad, I think he didn't talk about it to the coroner because it was about me."

"How so?" asked Jane.

"I won't hide anything. James and his father disagreed about me a lot. Mr. McCarthy wanted us to get married. James and I were always close, but he's young, and – and – well, he naturally didn't want to do anything like that yet. So they had a lot of fights, and this was probably one of them."

"And your father?" asked Holmes, "Was he in favor of such a union?"

"No, he was against it. No one but Mr. McCarthy wanted it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

"Thank you for this information," said Holmes, "May I see your father if I call tomorrow?"

"No," said Alice, "His doctor won't allow it."

"'Doctor?'" asked Jane.

"Yes," replied Alice, "When Dad heard what happened to Mr. McCarthy and James, he had a total nervous breakdown. He's been sick for a while, and this may be the straw that broke the camel's back. Mr. McCarthy was the only man who knew dad back in Victoria."

"Ha!" said Holmes, "In Victoria! That is important."

Alice nodded and said, "they worked at the same mines."

"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money."

Alice nodded again.

"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me."

"Call me tomorrow if you have any news," said Alice, jotting down her phone number, "If you go to see James, please tell him I know he's innocent."

"I will, Miss Turner," said Holmes.

"I have to go home now. Dad doesn't like to be alone for too long." She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and the low hum of her car told them that she had truly gone.

"I'm ashamed of you, Holmes," said Summerby with dignity after a few minutes' silence. "How can you raise up hopes which you're bound to disappoint? I'm not overly tender, but I call it cruel."

"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes, "Have you an order to see him in prison?"

"Yes, but only for you and me."

"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to see him tonight?"

"Of course," said Lestrade, getting his keys.

"Then let us do so," said Holmes, turning to Jane, "Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

* * *

Jane immediately returned to the hotel, where she began to read the coroner's report that Holmes had provided for her. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story was absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly.

"What could it be?" asked Jane to herself. She then went back to the report to see what the county medical examiner had to say about McCarthy's injuries.

"The posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone were shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon," said Jane, once again to herself. She mentally marked the places on her own skull and concluded that he'd have to have been struck from behind.

That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarreling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. At any rate, it might be worthwhile to call Holmes's attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate?

Jane racked her brains for an answer, but none came to her. The gray cloth factor proved equally elusive. If that were true, the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was!

_C'mon, Holmes,_ thought Jane, _You've GOTTA figure this out._

It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."

"Did you learn anything from him?" asked Jane.

"Nothing."

"He didn't know anything?"

"Nothing at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."

"Can't say much for his taste, though," said Jane, "Alice seemed really nice."

"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Boise and marry her? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Boise, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in Reno, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."

"But if he's innocent, who did it?"

"Ah! Who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. But for now, let us return to our discussion of George Meredith from yesterday, and we shall leave all minor matters until tomorrow."

* * *

There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock, they met with Summerby and set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

"Bad news this morning," said Summerby, "Turner's dying."

"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

"About sixty; but his constitution was never that strong, and he's been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

"That's interesting," said Jane.

"Really," said Holmes, "Summerby, does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, the heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"

"We have the deductions and the inferences," said Summerby, "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."

"You are right," said Holmes demurely, "you do find it very hard to tackle the facts."

"Anyhow," said Summerby, "I've managed to gain one fact that seems to have eluded you."

"And that is?"

"That McCarthy senior was killed by McCarthy junior and all your theories are moonshine."

"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes, laughing, "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left."

It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. They called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes's request, showed them the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the courtyard, from which all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognize him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Summerby and Jane walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while Jane watched her friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed toward a definite end.

The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, was situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side they could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees land the reeds which lined the lake. Summerby showed Holmes and Watson the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that both could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as could be seen by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon Summerby.

"What did you go into the pool for?" asked Summerby

"I fished about with a rake," replied Holmes, "I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth – "

Holmes stopped short and began scrambling about again.

"Oh, tut, tut!" said Holmes, more to himself than to the others, "I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet."

He drew out a magnifying glass and lay down to have a better view, mumbling the whole time.

"These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! Tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again – of course that was for the coat. Now where did they come from?"

He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until they were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech tree, the largest tree in the neighborhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to Jane to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

"It has been a case of considerable interest," Holmes remarked, returning to his natural manner, "I fancy that this gray house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with the lodge-keeper, and perhaps make a phone call. Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the car, and I shall be with you presently."

* * *

Ten minutes later, the trio was driving back into Ross, Holmes still carrying the rock he picked up in the woods.

"This may interest you, Summerby," Holmes remarked, holding it out, "The murder was done with it."

"I don't see any marks," said Summerby.

"There are none."

"How do you know, then?"

"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."

"And the murderer?" asked Jane.

"He is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled boots and a grey coat, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt penknife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search."

Summerby laughed. "I'm still a little skeptical," he said, "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hardheaded jury."

"_Nous verrons_," answered Holmes calmly, "You work your own method, and I shall work mine. Watson and I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to Seattle by means of a red-eye flight."

"And leave the case unfinished?" asked Jane.

"No, finished," replied Holmes.

"But the mystery," said Summerby.

"It is solved."

"Who was the criminal, then?"

"The gentleman I described."

"But who is he?"

"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighborhood."

Summerby shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a practical man," he said, "and I really cannot go about the country looking for a left-handed man with a bad leg. I'll become the laughingstock of the whole police force."

"All right," said Holmes quietly, "I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Goodbye. I shall drop you a line before we leave."

Having left Summerby at his rooms, Sherlock and Jane walked to their hotel, where they ate a light lunch. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.

"Look here, Watson," he said when they had finished, "just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice."

"Okay," said Jane.

"Well, now, in considering this case, there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favor and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

"But what about that weird cry?"

"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Boise. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of whomever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."

"What about the rat?"

Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. "This is a map of the Australian state of Victoria," he said. He put his hand over part of the map. "What do you read?"

"'ARAT,'" said Watson.

"And now?" Holmes raised his hand.

"'BALLARAT.'"

"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

"It all makes sense!" said Jane.

"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey coat."

"And it was one who lived in the area," said Jane, "because the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers couldn't go."

"Quite so," said Sherlock, "Then comes our expedition of today. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Summerby, as to the personality of the criminal."

"But how did you get those?"

"You know my method. It is founded on the observation of trifles."

"You could get his height from the length of his stride," said Jane, "and his boots by the prints they left."

"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

"But his leg?"

"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left," said Holmes, standing, "He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped."

"His left-handedness?"

"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."

"What about the cigar-holder?"

"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth," said Holmes simply, "Therefore, he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt penknife."

"Holmes," said Jane, "if all of this is right, then the killer would have to be – "

"Mr. John Turner," said the hotel waiter, who showed said guest into the hotel sitting room.

The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to Jane at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

"Pray, sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently, "You had my note?"

"Yes," said Turner, his voice heavy with an Australian patois, "the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wanted to see me here to avoid scandal."

"I thought people might talk if we came to your house," replied Holmes.

"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at the two with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.

"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words, "It is so. I know all about McCarthy."

The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried, "But I wouldn't've let James come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it came to that."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes, gravely.

"I would have spoken now had it not been for my little girl. It would break her heart – it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested."

"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

"What?" asked Turner.

"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

"I am a dying man," said old Turner, "I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says I have a month, at most. I would rather die under my own roof than in a jail."

Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he said, "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed."

"It's as well," said the old man, "it's a question whether I shall live to face earthly justice, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell."

* * *

_You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of a man like him. He's had me in his grip these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power._

_It was in the early '60's that I got a job at the gold mines. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the history books as the Ballarat Gang._

_One day, a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six rangers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we killed four of them at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the convoy, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over here without being suspected. There, I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby, her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me._

_I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in the street with hardly a coat to his back or a shoe to his foot._

'_Here we are, Jack,' said he, touching me on the arm, 'we'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't – it's a fine, law-abiding country, America, and they're always willing to let criminals be extradited.'_

_Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the law. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question: land, money, houses; until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice._

_His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I disliked the boy, but McCarthy's blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over._

_When we went down there, I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk, all that was black and bitter in me seemed to just come out. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of a man like this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could only silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the coat which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story of all that occurred._

* * *

"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out, "I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation."

"I pray not, young sir," said Turner, "What do you plan to do?"

"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than any either in America or Australia. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye. Your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us."

"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly, "Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence, "Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes and Jane Watson.'"

Jane had never seen Holmes like this. So she did the only thing she could think of to comfort him: she hugged him.

* * *

_**(A/N: Now that I've adjusted to college life somewhat, my next update will be much faster. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	14. ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

Yes, it's happened. The stress of college work has caused my brain to enter a state of severe writers' block. I don't think it'll last long, but don't expect any updates soon. Please rest assured that I fully intend to finish this fanfic AND write a sequel for it. If you're actually still interested in reading it, well, Thank you.

If anyone out there has any ideas, feel free to share them. The right idea JUST MIGHT knock my brain out of writing atrophy.


	15. The Case of the Redheaded League

_**(A/N: FINALLY, a lull in my busy schedule has allowed me to write again. Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

Jane Watson had called upon her friend, Sherlock Holmes, one day in late October and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. She quickly apologized and turned to leave, but Holmes pulled her abruptly into the room and closed the door.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially.

"I though you were busy."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all," said Holmes, turning to the man, "This lady, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that she will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods, "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

"Well of course I'm interested," said Jane with a laugh, "my name's on the business license, too."

"You will remember that I once remarked that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination."

"Which, as I recall, I doubted at first."

"You did, Watson, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jacob Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Miss Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, Jane took a good look at the man and endeavored, after the fashion of her companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance. She did not gain much, however. The visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore baggy, gray trousers, and a rather unclean black coat, unbuttoned in the front. Altogether, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red hair, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Holmes's quick eye took in Jane's occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed her questioning glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labor, that he takes snuff, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon Holmes.

"How did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual labor? It's as true as gospel, for I began as a carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir," said Holmes, "Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed."

"Well, what about the snuff?"

"The fine black dust upon your collar. When we shook hands, I was able to catch the faint scent of snuff tobacco."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your car keys, the matter becomes even more simple."

Mr. Wilson laughed heavily. "I thought at first that you did something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it, after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in explaining. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_, you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have it now," he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column, "Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, little lady."

Watson took the paper from him and read as follows.

_TO THE REDHEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Hezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of 10 dollars a week for purely nominal services. All redheaded men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Colombia Street, Pioneer Square._

After Jane read it twice, she asked aloud, "What does it mean?" Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits.

"It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said he, "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Watson, of the paper and the date."

"It's The Morning Chronicle, August 10, 2009. Just two months ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it's just like I told you, Mr. Holmes," said Wilson, mopping his forehead, "I have a small pawnbroker's business in Cascade. It's not a very large affair, and lately, it's given me a living and nothing else. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one. I wouldn't even be able to keep **him** if he didn't take half-wages so he could learn the business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either. It's hard to say his age. I couldn't ask for a better yes-man, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I'm able to give him. But, after all, he's satisfied, so why should I put ideas in his head?"

"'Why,' indeed?" said Holmes, "You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he's not perfect," said Mr. Wilson, "Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he should be improving his mind, and then diving down into the basement like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That's his main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. Not a single vice, that I know of."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and my daughter, a girl of 14 – that's all I have in the house. I'm a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more."

Wilson stopped to take a bit of snuff and continued.

* * *

_The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks ago, with this very paper in his hand, and he says, 'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a redheaded man.'_

'_Why's that?' I asked._

'_Well,' says he, 'there's another vacancy in the League of the Redheaded Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees don't know what to do with the money. If my hair would only change color, here's a nest egg all ready for the taking.'_

'_What is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I'm a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the doormat. I don't have a TV, and I was always glad for a little news._

'_Haven't you heard of the League of the Redheaded Men?' he asked with his eyes open._

'_Never.'_

'_Amazing, 'cause you're eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.'_

'_What are they worth?' I asked._

'_Oh, about a couple of hundred a year, but the work is easy, and it doesn't interfere with one's other occupations.'_

_Now that got my attention, because business hasn't exactly been booming for a few years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been handy._

'_Tell me all about it,' I said._

'_Well,' said he, showing me the ad, 'you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there's the address where you apply for the particulars. Far as I can tell, the League was founded by a British millionaire, Hezekiah Hopkins, who was kind of weird. He was himself redheaded, and he had a great sympathy for all redheaded men; so when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest making the lives of redheaded men a little easier. From all I hear it's good money and very little to do.'_

'_But,' said I, 'Then millions of redheaded men would be there right now.'_

'_Not so many as you might think,' he answered, 'You see, it's confined to Seattle residents, and to grown men. This Englishman got started in Seattle when he was young, and he wanted to give something back. Also, I've heard you shouldn't bother applying if your hair is light red, dark red, or anything but really bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you applied, Mr. Wilson, you could just walk in; but maybe you're right; it wouldn't be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred dollars.'_

_Now, it is a fact, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so I thought that I'd have as good a chance as anyone. Vince seemed to know so much about it that I figured he should come along, so I told him to close early and come along._

_I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes; Every man who had a shade of red in his hair in the county was there! Colombia Street was backed up for blocks. I didn't think there were that many redheads in the whole country, much less the city. Every shade of red – straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, like Spaulding said, there weren't many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I almost gave up on the spot; but Spaulding wouldn't have it. He actually pushed me through the entire crowd and right up the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream on the stair, some going up and some coming down, but once again, Vince got me a spot._

_There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find something to disqualify them for. However, when my turn came, the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us._

'_This is Mr. Jacob Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he's willing to fill the vacancy in your League.'_

'_And he's well suited,' the other answered, 'He has every requirement. I can't recall when I have seen anything so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I started to get a weird vibe. Then he jumped at me and started shaking my hand until I thought it would break. _

'_Please excuse me in advance for this,' he said._

_With that he grabbed my hair with both hands and yanked until I yelled with the pain. 'There's water in your eyes,' he said as he finally let go, 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful: twice people have tried wigs and one even tried paint. I could disgust you with some of the things I've seen.'_

_He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up, and everyone left except for me, Spaulding, and the manager._

'_My name,' said he, 'is Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners on the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Any family?'_

_I told him that I was a widower with only one daughter, and she was a brunette, like her mother._

'_Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious. I'm sorry to hear you say that. The fund was for the propagation and spread of redheads as well as their maintenance. Your being a bachelor is problematic.'_

_I was more than a little bothered by this, but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said it would be all right._

'_For anyone else,' he said, 'the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When will you be able to start?'_

'_Well, that might be a problem, 'cause I have a business already,' I said._

'_Oh, never mind that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent, 'I can take care of everything.'_

'_What would be the hours?' I asked._

'_Ten to two.'_

_Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done at night, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before payday; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up._

'_Sounds good to me,' I said, 'And the pay?'_

'_Is 10 dollars a week.'_

'_And the work?'_

'_Is purely nominal.'_

'_What do you call _purely nominal_?'_

'_Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit you position forever. The will is very clear on that. You don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office.'_

'_It's only 4 hours,' I said._

_'No excuse will be tolerated,' said Mr. Ross; 'neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you stay, or you lose your position.'_

'_And the work?' I asked again._

'_Is to copy out an old version of the __Encyclopaedia Britannica__. The first volume is here. You have to get your own pens, pencils, and paper, but we provide the table and chair. Will you be ready tomorrow?'_

'_Sure,' I answered._

'_Then, goodbye, Mr. Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.'_

_We exchanged a few more pleasantries and then left._

_Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was depressed again; I was sure that the whole thing was some kind of hoax or fraud, though I couldn't figure out why. It seemed too hard to believe that anyone would make such a will, or that they would pay that much for doing anything so simple as copying out the __Encyclopaedia Britannica__. Vincent did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I decided to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a packet of notebook paper and a few pencils, and I went off to Pioneer Square._

_Well, to my surprise and delight, everything seemed as it was supposed to. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Ross was there to see that I got to work. He started me off on the letter A, and then he left; but he would drop in from time to time to see that everything was fine. At two o'clock he walked me out, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me._

_This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and handed me two 5-dollar bills for my week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. Ross started coming in only once in the morning, and then, eventually he didn't come in at all. I never tried to leave the room for a second, as I wasn't sure when he might pop in, and the money was good, and suited me so well, that I couldn't risk losing it._

_Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armor and Architecture and Attica, and hoped I would eventually get to the B's. It cost me something in paper, and I'd almost filled an entire shelf. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end._

* * *

"'To an end?'" asked Jane.

"Yes, just this morning. I went to work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of card-board hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece of white card-board about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED.

Holmes and Watson surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that they both burst out into a roar of laughter.

"I don't see what's so funny," said Wilson, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head, "If you're just going to laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen, "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?"

"I was staggered. I didn't know what to do. Then I called at the other offices, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he never heard of them. Then I asked him who Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.

'_He's the guy in number four,' I said._

'_What, the redheaded man?'_

'_Yes.'_

_'Oh,' he said, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'_

'_Where could I find him?'_

'_At his new offices. He did tell me the address. 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'_

"I started off, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial kneecaps, and no one in it had ever heard of either William Morris or Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home and I asked Vincent for advice. But he wasn't any help, either. He could only say that if I waited I'd probably get a call or a letter. But that wasn't good enough for me. I didn't want to lose a place like that without a fight, so, as I heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folks who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."

"Bad enough!" said Wilson, "I've lost 10 dollars a week!"

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some 80 dollars, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them."

"True," said Wilson, "But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank – if it was a prank – on me. Almost a hundred dollars is pretty expensive joke."

"We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement – how long had he been with you?"

"About a month then."

"How did he come?"

"In answer to an advertisement."

"Was he the only applicant?"

"No, I had a dozen."

"Why did you pick him?"

"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages, in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he could be in his late 20's. He has a white splash of acid upon his forehead."

"How did he obtain it?"

"He said it was from an accident in his high school chemistry class."

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as much," said he, "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?"

"Yes, actually," said Wilson, "But he never wears earrings; said it was something that happened once when he was drunk and doesn't care to talk about it."

"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought, "He is still with you?"

"I left him only an hour ago."

"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

"Nothing to complain of. There's never very much to do in the morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

* * *

"Well, Watson," said Holmes when their visitor had left, "what do you make of it all?"

"Nothing," said Jane frankly, "It makes no sense for it to be just a joke, but it's too weird to be a coincidence."

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

"What are you going to do, then?" asked Jane.

"To meditate," he answered, "It is quite a problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for at least 50 minutes."

He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his face thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. After a while, Jane came to the conclusion that he had fallen asleep, and had started to nod off herself when Holmes suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind. "Sarasate will be played at the St. James's Orchestral Hall this afternoon," he remarked, "What do you think, Watson? Could your parents spare you for a few hours?"

"Sure," she said, "Marty's got football practice and my parents are both working, so I don't have anything to do."

"Then put on your coat and come. I am going through the city first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the program, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

The pair traveled by the subway as far as Eastlake; and a short walk took them through Cascade to the scene of Wilson's story. It was a small, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, with a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes. Three gilt balls and a brown board with

"JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced their destination. Sherlock stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with a cane two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to South Lake Union."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as they walked away, "He is, in my judgment. the fourth smartest man in Seattle, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third in Tacoma. I have known something of him before."

"Evidently," said Jane, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. You inquired about SLU just to get a good look at him."

"Not him."

"Then why?"

"The knees of his pants."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

Jane sighed. Holmes' vague way of answering was getting tiresome. "Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear girl, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Cascade. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which they found themselves as they went around the corner from the retired Cascade presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the city to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize, as they looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises, that they stuck out on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square where they had just been.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of Seattle. There is Mortimer's, the delicatessen, the little newspaper shop, the Cascade branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the vegetarian restaurant, and McFarlane's used car lot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Watson, we've done our work, so it is time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

Jane couldn't help but smile. Holmes was an enthusiastic musician, being not only a very capable performer, but a composer of no ordinary merit.

All the afternoon the two sat in the back row, wrapped in the most perfect happiness, with Holmes gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive.

When Jane saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall, she felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Watson," he remarked as they emerged, hours later.

Jane yawned and said, "Yep. I could use a siesta."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours," said Holmes, "This business in Cascade is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But today being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help tonight."

"When?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"Then expect me at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Watson, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your revolver in your pocket."

He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

* * *

It was a quarter-past nine when Jane walked over to Holmes' house. An unfamiliar car was parked at the curb, and Jane heard voices as she went in. On entering the living room she found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom she recognized as Peter Jones, a lieutenant in the Seattle police department, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable coat.

"Ha!" said Holmes when he saw Jane, "Our party is complete." He was buttoning up his pea coat and taking a heavy hunting crop from the hall closet.

"Watson, I think you know Officer Jones?" said Holmes, "And let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in tonight's adventure." He and Jane shook hands.

"We're hunting in couples again, Miss Watson, you see," said Jones in his consequential way, "Holmes here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down."

"I hope a wild goose does not prove to be the end of our chase," observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the police agent loftily, "He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he is nonetheless an excellent detective. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Lieutenant," said the stranger with deference, "Still, I confess that I miss my game. It is the first Saturday night for 27 years that I have not played cards with my friends."

"I think you will find," said Holmes, "that you will play for a higher stake tonight than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some several million dollars; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

Jones noticed the inquisitive look on Jane's face and said, "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather get my hands on him than on any criminal in Seattle. He's a remarkable man, John Clay. He's been educated at both Princeton and Cornell. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a safe in Boca Raton one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in San Diego the next. He's wanted in 8 states, and most police forces haven't ever seen him."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night," said Holmes, "I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take your car, Watson and I will follow in mine."

Holmes was not very communicative during the drive and lay back in the passenger seat, humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon.

"We are close there now," Holmes remarked as they pulled into Cascade, "This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue: he is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us."

They finally reached South Lake Union and stopped in the same area as that morning. Jane parked the car and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, the detectives passed down a narrow ally and through a side door, which Merryweather opened. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to take a flashlight, and then conducted the party down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault, which was piled all around with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held up his own flashlight and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Merryweather, striking his stick upon the stone tiles which lined the floor.

"It sounds hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes severely, "You have already imperiled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell to his knees upon the floor and, with the flashlight and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Watson — as no doubt you have divined — in the cellar of the city branch of one of the principal Seattle banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of Seattle should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present."

"It is our platinum," whispered the director. "We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Platinum?" asked Jane.

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to perform a service for an African jeweler firm, and it was to keep guard over 3 dozen bars of the highest quality platinum. It has become known that we have yet to return it to them, and that the platinum is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains the bars packed between layers of lead foil. the directors have had misgivings upon the subject as this cellar is the only blind spot in our bank's security system."

"Said misgivings were very well justified," observed Holmes, "And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must turn off our flashlights."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a _partie carrée_, you might have your game after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."

Jane placed her gun, a Glock model 22, on the top of the wooden case behind which she crouched. Holmes flicked off the flashlight and left the four of them in pitch darkness – such an absolute darkness as Jane have never before experienced. The smell of gunmetal reminded them that danger was fast approaching, ready to flash out at a moment's notice.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes, "That is back through the house into Cascade. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?"

"I've got three officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to Jane that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above them. Her limbs were weary and stiff, for she feared to change her position; yet her nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and her hearing was so acute that she could not only hear the gentle breathing of her companions, but she could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From her position Jane could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly, her eyes caught the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the center of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed a fierce light. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you got the bags? Jesus! Get out now!"

Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and Jane heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones grabbed at his coat. The light flashed upon the barrel of a gun, but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly, "You have no chance at all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness, "I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you've got his coat-tails."

"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, really?" said Clay, "You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you."

"And I you," Holmes answered, "Your redheaded idea was very new and effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones, "He's quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Now hold out your arms."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked the prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists, "You may not be aware that I am descended from German aristocracy. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger, "Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a car to carry your Highness to the police-station?"

"That's better," said Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of them and walked quietly off in Jones's custody.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as they left the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay," said Holmes, "I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League."

* * *

"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as they sat over a glass of cold milk in Baker Street, "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice's hair. The 10 dollars a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for millions? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it. And together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation."

"But how could you guess what the motive was?" asked Jane.

"Had there been another woman in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in Seattle. He was doing something in the cellar – something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building. So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called the police and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt tonight?" Jane asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Wilson's presence – in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the platinum might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come tonight."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," Jane exclaimed in unfeigned admiration, "Everything, like the links in a chain."

"It saved me from ennui," Holmes answered, yawning, "Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so."

"And you're a credit the entire human race," said Jane, sleepily laying her head on his shoulder.

Holmes smiled and allowed his own head to fall upon Jane's. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," he remarked, "_L'homme c'est rien – l'oeuvre c'est tout_,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."

And with that, both Sherlock and Jane fell into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_ - everything unknown appears magnificent

_partie carrée_ - party of 4

_L'homme c'est rien – l'oeuvre c'est tout_ - The Man is nothing, the work is everything.

* * *

_**(A/N: Yes, I'm aware of the grammatical and spelling mistakes, but I'm too tired right now to correct them. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	16. Diary of Jane Watson Epilogue CRL

_**(The Halloween chapter is underway! Please Read & Review.)**_

**Chapter Dedication:** Thanks to chibiaries, who gave me a number of excellent ideas while I was out of circulation.

* * *

_October 24, 2009_

_Dear Diary, oh my God! I can't believe what happened yesterday. _

_So I was just sitting at home yesterday, watching reruns of "Diagnosis Murder," when Marty calls just when Jesse Travis was about to screw up and need Dr. Sloan to get him out of trouble. Anyway, Marty called and asked me to meet him at Hec Ramsey's Pizza Parlor. I tried all my feminine wiles to make him tell me why, but all I could get out of him was "bring your class ring."_

_So I borrowed Holmes' car (he gave me a spare key last week) and drove into the city. When I got to Ramsey's, Marty was sitting in a booth in the corner. I could tell that he wanted privacy. _

"_Hey, babe," he said, flashing that sexy smile that always makes me weak at the knees. We ordered a meatball pizza and root beer, and I asked him why he wanted to see me so badly._

"_Jane," he said to me, "We've been dating for almost a month. I think you know as much as I do that we haven't just got some little fling going on here."_

_I swear, my breath just caught in my throat. I had a feeling of what he was going to say, but I wasn't really prepared to actually hear it._

"_Jane," he said, taking something out of his pocket, "will you wear my class ring?" And he held it up on a BEAUTIFUL gold chain that I suspect cost more than the actual ring._

_I was so shocked that for a minute, I couldn't say anything. Then I leaned forward and gave him the best kiss that I'm pretty sure he's ever had. _

"_I'll take that as a yes," he said. His voice had gone up almost an octave and I caught him surreptitiously tugging at his collar._

_So we ate our pizza, danced a little, talked about school and other things, and then we drove down to the harbor to watch the sunset from the Space Needle. Oh, did I mention that Marty's now wearing my ring on his pinkie? Because that's apparently how you're supposed to do it._

_Sometimes, I think my life is almost like a fairytale; I have loving parents, my boyfriend's captain of the football team, I have a great job, and the best friend that anyone could ever ask for: Sherlock Holmes._

_You know, it's funny, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only person who gets him. Our clients see him as Holmes, the brilliant detective; the kids at school see him as Holmes, the aloof genius; but does anyone else see Holmes, the person? I sometimes wonder._

_TTFN_

_Love, Jane XOXO_

* * *

**Seattle Police Headquarters**

"Your client is right through here, Mr. Smythe," said the guard, leading a tall gentleman into the holding cell.

"Thank you kindly," replied the man with a British accent. He adjusted his dark-lensed pince-nez and entered the small room wherein sat John Clay at a metal table.

"Attorney-client privilege, if you don't mind," said Clay. The guard closed the door, affording Clay and his visitor complete privacy. The British man sat down across from Clay and said nothing

"Good evening, Cane," said Clay, "When can I expect Moriarty to bail me out of here?"

"I'm afraid," said Cane, nonchalantly twirling his namesake in his gloved fingers, "that the good Professor has decided that you've become more of a liability than an asset. You are staying where you are."

Clay chuckled darkly and said, "Moriarty knows that I know enough about his operations to put him behind bars for a LONG time. He knows I'll go to the cops in a second if he betrays me."

"Ah," said Cane, standing, "therein lies the difficult. Professor Moriarty is well aware of your knowledge of our organization, in spite of your freelance proclivities. And I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he has decided that you must die." His fingers instinctively felt the scarred circle-within-triangle on the back of his neck.

"Even Moriarty can't get me in prison," said Clay, "I have too many friends."

"This is indeed the truth," said Cane, "however, I observe that we are not in prison at this particular moment, and it would seem that you and I are the only ones present."

Clay began to speak, but he never got the chance. Quick as a flash, Cane twisted his cane, withdrew the knife hidden within, and slashed Clay across the throat, severing his vocal cords so he could not even make a death rattle. Removing the blade from its hiding place, Cane took the weapon and placed it tightly into Clay's fist.

"My client has request some time alone," said Cane as he exited the room, shutting the door tightly, "He shall require a bit of personal introspection."

* * *

_**(I'm starting to think that I should stop writing so late at night, because this feels like crap to me. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	17. Halloween

_**(A/N: Happy **_**Oidhche Shamhna**_**! That's the Scottish Gaelic way of saying "Halloween." Anyway, please enjoy a chapter filled with romance, mystery, comedy, and iCarly. On second thought, strike that last one. Although . . . Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

It was the day before Halloween, and all the students at George E. Challenger High School were preparing for the endless stream of parties, decorations, and candy (for those who still trick or treated) that came on October 31st.

Not immune to the festive (albeit macabre) atmosphere was Jane Watson, a young girl who worked for one of her classmates, a private detective named Sherlock Holmes. She always enjoyed Halloween, and enjoyed discussing it with her friends.

"So Jane," said Sarah, a petite blond with glasses and a slight overbite, "what are you and Marty wearing to John's party tomorrow night?" John was captain of the soccer team, and a friend of Marty's.

Jane thought for a minute and said, "We're going as Julius Caesar and Cleopatra, like in the Elizabeth Taylor film."

"Is - uh - Sherlock coming?" said Carmen, twisting her brown hair. Carmen had had a crush on Holmes for almost year, ever since he'd won the state chess tournament. For this reason, he avoided her whenever possible.

"No," said Jane, "He think Halloween is 'a pointless tradition that not only wastes money on costumes never to be worn again, but promotes the excessive consumption of empty calories.'"

The three girls laughed at this for a while, then went their separate ways. Jane went down to the football field to watch Marty and the team practice.

"Okay, let's go," shouted Marty to the other players, "Those assholes over at A.C. Doyle High think that their shit doesn't stink! And who's gonna prove 'um wrong?!"

"THE CHALLENGER RAVENS!" roared the team.

"Damn right," said Marty, "Now run through those plays we discussed, I'll be back in a minute." He climbed up the bleachers to where Jane was sitting.

"Hey, baby," she said, kissing him, "Ready for John's party tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he said with a sigh, "but do we really have to go as Caesar and Cleopatra?"

"If you do, I'll give you a special reward," said Jane, butterfly-kissing his neck.

"O-Okay," said Marty, his heart starting to race. It always made him weak in the knees when Jane kissed him like that.

"Thank you," she said, "I'll see you tomorrow." She then grabbed her backpack and headed home.

* * *

Halloween Night

"Now, honey," said Mr. Watson, "Remember the rules: You go to the party with Marty, you do NOT leave alone, you LEAVE if this boy's parents aren't there – "

"And I don't stay if anyone's using alcohol or drugs of any sort," said Jane deadpan, doing her makeup.

"All right," he said, "Your mother and I should be home around one. We expect – "

"Me here when you arrive or I'm grounded for a week."

There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Watson opened it and let Marty in.

"Hi, Mrs. Watson," he said.

"Evening, Marty," said Mr. Watson from the living room.

"Have a good time at your party, sweetie," said Mrs. Watson, kissing Jane's head.

"But not a great time!" yelled Mr. Watson as Jane and Marty drove off.

"Sorry," said Jane, "they get like that, sometimes."

"It's cool," said Marty, "Parents. You can't live with them, can't live without their money."

Jane laughed and said, "You're funny. Cute, too."

"And you're sexy," said Marty.

Surreptitiously, Jane checked herself out in Marty's side mirror. She had to agree; she was stunning in Egyptian makeup. Of course, it helped that her costume acted like a push-up bra and her skirt was slit up to her thigh.

When they arrived at the party, it was in full swing. Loud music was blaring, people were grinding on the dance floor, and there was enough food laid out to satisfy a third-world country. Jane saw someone covertly pour a flask of something into the punch, but she wasn't worried. John's parties never got out of control, and she could ask Marty to take her home if it did.

"Jane," said a honey-sweet voice from behind her, "so good of you to come."

Jane turned and resisted the urge not to frown. It was Tamara Martinez, the captain of the cheerleading squad and John's girlfriend. They'd never gotten along particularly well, to put it lightly.

"Hi, Tamara," said Jane, "love your costume." Tamara was dressed in a slutty burlesque-dancer outfit that made her look cheaper than she actually was. It was an open secret that Tamara had been with most of the guys on the soccer team already, and was currently working her way through the baseball team.

"I love yours too," said Tamara, "I think it's so cute that you and Marty came in matching costumes."

"What about you and John?" asked Jane.

"John and I are taking a break," said Tamara, smiling wickedly, "We decided to sow our wild oats for a while."

"And you've never been one to pass up an opportunity," said Jane, "For sex. With a man. Any man."

"Excuse me?" said Tamara, glowering, "Did you just call me a whore?"

"Why no," said Jane, putting her hands to her chest as if shocked, "I most definitely did NOT call you a whore."

"That's funny," said Tamara, "because I think you did just call me a whore."

"No, no," said Jane, "You, Tamara Martinez, are not a whore."

Tamara seemed to accept this and went to work the room. But just before she was out of earshot, she could have sworn that she heard Jane say, "Slut," before walking away.

* * *

A few hours later, the party was almost over and had passed without incident. But Marty had gotten into a "punch-drinking" contest with some of the other guys and won, and was now walking with a pronounced stagger, had glazed eyes, and spoke with a slight slur.

"C'mon Marty," said Jane, gently, "give me your keys and we can go home."

"Can't go yet," drawled Marty, "Still ain't had my special surprise." The way he leered at her was starting to make Jane uncomfortable.

"Umm," she said, "it's back at your house. Give me your keys and we'll go get it."

"Okay," said Marty, "Gotta take a piss first."

He staggered off toward the bathroom. After a few minutes and he didn't come back, Jane went looking for him. Finally, she saw the back of his head next to an empty couch.

"Marty, what are you doing?" she asked, and immediately wished she hadn't. Marty was frenching Tamara, who had her arms around his neck and his arms around her waist, holding them tightly together.

"Jane!" he said, pushing Tamara away, "I swear this isn't what it looks like!"

Jane ran, pushing her way past several people, desperately trying not to cry, and hurried out of the house.

"Jane," said Marty, running after her, "will you just listen to me?"

"No!" shouted Jane, without looking back, "I don't even want to look at you right now!"

"Listen, she came on to me," said Marty, catching up and grabbing her arm, "If you'll just take a minute to calm down – "

"Let her go," said a voice from behind them. Both Jane and Marty turned to see Holmes, his face fixed into an unmistakable frown.

"Holmes, what are you doing here?" asked Jane, pulling her arm out of Marty's grip.

"I followed you," he replied simply.

"I didn't see you."

"That is what you may expect to see when I follow you."

"Look, Holmes," said Marty, "this is none of your business."

"When my friend and partner falls victim to the harassments of a drunken ruffian," snarled Holmes, "it **becomes** my business."

Marty looked like he was about to object, but the look of tranquil fury on Holmes' face made him shut up and go back in the house.

Without a word, Holmes removed his jacket and placed it on Jane's shoulders as they walked off into the night.

"Holmes?" said Jane, tears falling down her lovely face.

"Yes, Watson?" he replied, uncommonly tender.

"Thank you," she said.

* * *

_**(A/N: Yes, I know: I'm posting this about an hour after midnight, so it's not technically Halloween anymore, but I think you'll enjoy it nonetheless. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	18. A Case of Identity

_**(A/N: Those of you who know me well enough to be informed of my personal convictions know that I am NOT a superstitious man. However, I'm also GREATLY relieved that I've designated various chapters as "half-chapters" and thus this is not the real chapter 13. Anyway, please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

"My dear friend," said Sherlock Holmes as he and his partner, Jane Watson, sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generation, and leading to the most outré results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

"That's stretching the truth a little, Holmes," Jane answered, "The cases in the papers are almost always plain. And in some police reports realism is pushed to the extreme, and yet the result is neither fascinating nor artistic."

"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect," remarked Holmes, "This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

Jane smiled and shook her head. "I see how you'd think that. Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled throughout three continents, you're a lot more familiar with the strange and the bizarre. But here, let's put it to a practical test."

She picked up the morning newspaper. "Here's a random headline"_ A husband's cruelty to his wife_. "Half a column of print, but I don't even have to read it to know what happened. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude." Jane almost giggled when she realized how much like Holmes she was starting to sound.

"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it, "This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband, a former baseball pitcher, was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average storyteller."

Jane lowered her eyes and admitted that this was true.

"Watson," said Holmes, "I'm afraid that I was somewhat misleading in my intentions when I asked you join me with your guitar in a rendition of one of Paganini's fine duets. Tell me, are you aware of the date?"

"November 12," said Jane.

"It is also one year to the day that you became an Irregular," said Holmes, smiling, "and in honor of this day, I felt that this was in order." He withdrew a small rectangular box from his pocket and handed it to Jane. She removed the ribbon, opened it and gasped.

The gift was a small jewelry box made of old gold, with a great amethyst in the center of the lid.

"Holmes," said Jane breathlessly, "Where did you get this?"

"Ah," said he, "It was a gift from a grateful client, some years ago. I myself have never had much use for such an item, but I believe you will enjoy it."

"Thank you," said Jane, "thank you so much." Without thinking, she leaned forward and planted a kiss on Holmes' cheek. His expression did not change, though a faint blush appeared in his face.

"And where did you get that ring?" Jane asked, glancing at the stone on his finger. It was a band carved out of silver in the image of two dragons with a brilliant emerald in the center.

"It was from the king of Morocco, though the matter in which I served him was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you."

"Do you have any cases on hand now?" asked Jane.

"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Vancouver, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

Holmes rose from his chair and stared out into the dull neutral-tinted Seattle street. Looking over his shoulder, Jane saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a petite girl with curly dark hair, a wide mouth, and green eyes. She wore a pair of blue jeans, a funny-looking hat, and a pink turtleneck sweater. She peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at Holmes' windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and the detectives heard the sharp clang of the doorbell.

"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, "Oscillation upon the pavement always means an _affaire de coeur_. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."

As he spoke there was a tap at the door. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.

"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much writing?"

"I did at first," she answered, "but now that I have contacts, it's a lot easier."

Then, suddenly realizing the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humored face. "How could you possible know that?" she asked.

"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

"My name is Mary Sutherland. I came to you because I heard of you from my friend, Margaret Etherege, whose husband you found when everyone thought he was dead. I was hoping that you'd be able to do as much for me. I'm not rich, but I have a small inheritance, besides the little that I make as a notary's assistant, and I would give it all to know happened to Henry Angel."

"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked Holmes, with his fingertips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Sutherland, "Yes, I did hurry out of the house," she said, "I was very angry at the way Mr. Windibank – that is, my father – took it all. He wouldn't go to the police, so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you."

"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name is different."

"Yes, my stepfather. I call him my father, though it sounds funny, too, because he's only five years and two months older than me."

"And your mother is alive?"

"Oh, yes, Mom is alive and well. I wasn't happy, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after Dad's death, and to a man who was almost fifteen years younger. Dad was a banker in Pinehurst, and he left a good business behind him, which Mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, his lawyer; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business. He's a traveler in wines, and didn't want that interfering with HIS business. They got about $186,000 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't nearly as much as father could have got if he had been alive."

Jane expected to see Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the business?"

"No," said Miss Sutherland, "It was left to me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It's in New Zealand stock, paying four and a half per cent. The amount is around 98 thousand dollars, but I can only touch the interest."

"You interest me extremely," said Holmes, "And since you draw so large a sum, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady such as yourself could get on very well."

"I could do with a lot less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don't want to be a burden to them, so they have the use of the money just while I'm staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn."

"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes, who then realized that he'd committed a _faux pas_ in not introducing Jane, "This is my friend, Jane Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Henry Angel."

* * *

"I met him at a party hosted by my father's bank" she said, "They used to send my father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to Mom. Mr. Windibank didn't want us to go. He never wanted us to go anywhere. He would get mad if I wanted to go to church on Sunday. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; what right did he have to stop me? He said that they weren't people we should know, when all my father's friends were there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I have plenty of nice clothes that I've never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when he finally realized that he couldn't stop me, he went off to Montilla to look into getting some Amontillado. So we went, my mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, and it was there I met Henry Angel."

"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from Spain he was very annoyed at your having gone to the party."

"Actually, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use in denying anything to a woman like me."

"I see. Then at the bankers' party you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Henry Angel."

"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called the next day to ask if we got home safely, and after that we met him – that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that Father came back again, and Henry couldn't come to the house anymore."

"No?"

"Well, you know my stepfather didn't like that. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that 'a woman should be happy in her own family circle.' But then, as I used to say to Mom, 'a woman wants her own circle to begin with,' and I didn't have mine yet."

"But how about Mr. Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"

"Well, Mr. Windibank was going off to France in a week, and Henry wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he was gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for Father to know. Henry wasn't computer-literate beyond the use of word processors, and distrusted email, you see."

"Were you engaged to him?" asked Jane.

"Oh, yes, Miss Watson," said Miss Sutherland, smiling dreamily, "We were engaged after the first walk we took. Henry was a cashier in a small business on Leadenhall Street – "

"What business?" asked Holmes.

"That's the worst part, Mr. Holmes. I don't know. There are at least two dozen on Leadenhall Street alone."

"Where did he live, then?"

"He slept on the premises."

"And you don't know his address?"

"No – except that it was on Leadenhall Street."

"Where did you address your letters, then?"

"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left 'til called for. He said that if they were sent to his place of business, he would be mocked by the stock boys about getting letters from a sweetheart, so I offered to type them, like he did his, but he didn't want that, because he loved my handwriting and didn't want a machine to come between us. That'll show you how much he loved me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."

"It was most suggestive," said Holmes, "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Henry Angel?"

"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, because he hated to be conspicuous. He was retiring and very gentlemanly. Even his voice was gentle. He'd had quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering way of talking. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, like mine, and he wore sunglasses even at dusk."

"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, went to France?"

"Henry came to the house again and proposed that we get married before my stepfather came back. He was absolutely serious and made me swear, with my hands on the Bible, that whatever happened I would always be true to him, and he swore the same to me. Mom, being a romantic at heart, thought that it was sweet, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mom supported us from the beginning and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked about us marrying within the week, I began to ask about Father; but they both said to forget about him for now, but tell him afterwards, and my mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny to ask him to give me away, as he was only a few years older than me, but I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I tried to call him at Bordeaux, where his company has its French office, but he was already on the plane back on the morning of the wedding."

"Ha! That was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in a church?"

"Yes, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Savior's in Tacoma, and we were going to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Henry came for us in a limo, but as there were two of us he put Mom and I into it and got into a cab. We got to the church first, and when his car drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman looked behind there was no one there! He said that he had no idea what happened, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what happened to him."

"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said Holmes with disgust.

"Oh, no, sir!" said Mary, "He would never play with my feelings or hurt me like that. All morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something terrible happened, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed very weird for the morning of our wedding, but I think I understand now why."

"Most certainly it does make sense. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

"Yes, sir. I believe that he knew he was in danger, or else he wouldn't have talked like that. And then it happened."

"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

"None."

"One more question: How did your mother take the matter?"

"She was angry, and said that I should forget about him."

"And your father? Did you tell him?"

"yes. He seemed to think that it was just a minor inconvenience, and that I'd hear from Henry sooner or later. Like he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got his name on my bank accounts, there might be some reason, but Henry was very independent about money and never took a penny from me. What could have happened? And why couldn't he reach me? Thinking about it is driving me crazy, and I can't sleep at night."

She put her face into her hands and started to cry. Jane put her arm around Mary's shoulder to comfort her.

"We shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Henry Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."

"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

"I fear not."

"Then what's happened to him?"

"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."

"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," she said, "Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."

"Thank you. And your address?"

"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's place of business?"

"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the claret importers on Fenchurch Street."

"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life."

"You're very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I can't do that. I have to be true to Henry. He'll find me ready when he comes back."

For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of their visitor which compelled Jane and Sherlock's respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

Holmes sat silently for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from a nearby rack a cone of incense, which was to him as a counselor, and, having lit it in a small brazier, he leaned back in his chair, with the sultry scent of jasmine filling the room, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed, "I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Austin, Texas in '07, and there was something of the sort last year in Orlando. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive."

"You seem to have gotten a lot more from her than I did," Jane remarked.

"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumbnails, or the great issues that may hang from a bootlace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."

"Well, she had a slate-colored, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a brickish red feather. Her sweater was pink, with black beads sewn on it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments and plush at the wrists. Her jeans were blue, a little darker than usual, and there was a little purple necklace under the turtleneck. Her gloves were grayish and were worn through at the right forefinger. I didn't really observe her footwear, but I knew they were boots by the sound they made. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."

Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

"'Pon my word, Watson," he said, "you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a woman's quick eye for color. Never trust to general impressions, my girl, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the pant leg. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where a writer presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the pencil-thin lenses upon her corneas, I ventured a remark upon short sight and excessive writing, which seemed to surprise her."

"It surprised me."

"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."

"And what else?" Jane asked, keenly interested, as she always was, by her friend's incisive reasoning.

"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and pressed her pen too hard. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Henry Angel?"

Jane held the little printed slip to the light.

"_Missing on the morning of the fifth, a gentleman named Henry Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the center, bushy, black sideburns and faint moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and gray Harris tweed trousers, with brown shoes. Known to have been employed in a business in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing –_ "

"That will do," said Holmes, "As to the letters, they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."

"They're typed," said Jane.

"Not only that, but the signature is typed. Look at the neat little 'Henry Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive – in fact, we may call it conclusive."

"Conclusive of what?" asked Jane.

"My dear friend, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?"

"I can't see how, unless he wanted to be able to deny that it was his if it were used as evidence in court."

"No, that was not the point. However, I shall make two phone calls, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the city, and the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Watson, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim."

Jane left him then, still sitting in his chair, with the conviction that when she came again on the next evening she would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

* * *

Jane had a rather important anatomy test to study for, and she was busy working the rest of the day and most of the next. It wasn't until close to six o'clock that she was able to go over to Holmes' house. She found Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told her that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

"Well, have you solved it?" she asked as she entered.

"Yes. It was the bisulfate of Barium hydroxide."

"No, no, the mystery!" Jane cried.

"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

"Who was he, then, and why did he desert Mary?"

The question was hardly out of her mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when they heard a heavy footfall on the steps and a tap at the door.

"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "He has agreed to be here at six. Come in!"

The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of them and sidled down into the nearest chair.

"Good evening, Mr. Windibank," said Holmes, "I trust that you have the document I requested you to bring?"

"Yes," he said, handing a piece of computer paper to Holmes, "Sorry that I'm a little late, but I'm not quite my own master, you know. I'm also sorry that Marry has troubled you about this. I think it's better not to wash one's dirty laundry in public. It was against my wishes that she came, but she's a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she isn't easily controlled when she makes up her mind on a point. Of course, I didn't mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it's not pleasant to have a family problem like this noised abroad. Besides, it's a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Henry Angel?"

"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly, "I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Henry Angel."

Mr. Windibank gave a violent start. "I'm delighted to hear it," he said.

"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a computer printer has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them print exactly alike. Some colors, for example, get more luster than others, and some will slant depending upon which hand one used to fill it with paper. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring in the center of the page, and a slight defect in the printing of letters in the upper-right margin. My brother has been kind enough to identify fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious."

"Everyone uses the same printer at the house, and no doubt it is a little worn," their visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.

"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued, "I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the printer and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typed. In each case, not only are the centers slurred and the margins defective, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."

Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair, "I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he said, "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it."

"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and locking the door, "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

"What! Where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

"Oh, it won't do – really it won't," said Holmes suavely, "There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit down and let us talk it over."

Windibank collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow.

"It – it's not actionable," he stammered.

"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to Jane or Windibank.

"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money," said Holmes, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warmhearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a goodly amount, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Henry Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself."

"It was only a joke at first," groaned their visitor, "We never thought that she would get so carried away."

"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from turning toward anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Henry Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a cab and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"

Windibank had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face.

"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you are so very sharp you should be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."

"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders."

"By Jove!" he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a walking stick handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to – "

He took two swift steps toward the stick, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window Holmes and Jane could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.

"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more, "That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest."

"I can't see all the steps in your reasoning," said Jane.

"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Henry Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typing his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction."

"How did you verify them?"

"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise – the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travelers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the printer, and I called the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come here with a sample of writing from his computer. As I expected, his reply revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. I also received a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employee, James Windibank. _Voila tout_! All that remains is to tell Miss Sutherland."

"Holmes," said Jane, "maybe we shouldn't."

"What do you mean?" asked Holmes.

"You saw how she was," said Jane, "If you tell her, she probably won't believe you. There's an old Persian saying, _'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.'_"

Holmes nodded and said, "There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world."

* * *

_**(A/N: Did I make Mary seem too stupid? I feel like I did. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	19. Diary of Jane Watson

_**(A/N: Yeah, yeah, this chapter's a little late. So sue me. Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

_November 26, 2009_

_Dear Diary, today is Thanksgiving. Mom's trying some new recipe called "Turducken," which is a turkey stuffed with a duck that is stuffed with a chicken. It sounds a little weird, but it's supposed to be delicious. _

_The Holmes family is coming over for dinner tonight, which is kind of funny. I mean, the whole reason we celebrate Thanksgiving is because the Pilgrims traveled across the pond to get AWAY from the British, and now we're inviting them into our home. _

_I hope it'll improve Sherlock's mood. We haven't had a case since we solved the Mary Sutherland mystery. I know it was my idea not to tell her that her fiancé was actually her stepfather, but I'm starting to regret it. I mean, she paid us to find out what happened to the man she loved, and all we told her was "forget him. He is gone forever." But, like I said then, maybe it's better this way. She even sent us some homemade fudge as a thank-you. It has nuts._

_Sherlock's working on some new chemical compound that will supposedly restore the original color to fibers that have been burned, dyed, or stained. He said that "the formula's molecular structure fails to achieve low-energy orbitals," but he'll get it right eventually. Sometimes, I think he might be bipolar, with the way he goes from energized over a case to the extreme of apathy when he doesn't have any brainwork to do. _

_Now, for the really big news: Marty and I are back together. _

_As you know, he kissed that slut Tamara Martinez at John's Halloween party last month after he got drunk. I was so hurt, I cried for two days. I know, that sounds really pathetic, but it's true. _

_Anyway, I was sitting in the cafeteria about a week ago, poking at the dry turkey, crunchy mashed potatoes, and jellied cranberry sauce that the school was serving, when he comes up and sits across from me. _

"_Can we talk?" he asked me. I didn't really want to, but then I noticed that he had a huge black eye. I asked him about it, and he said that he got mugged by a black guy with an Irish accent. I knew I always liked Wiggins._

_So I agreed to listen to him try to explain what happened. He read the whole "I was drunk, sort of stumbled into her, couldn't really get her off me" act, but then he surprised me. He told that he hasn't been able to go to practice because he was too busy thinking about me, and that he hadn't even showered for weeks. He smelled really gamy, so that much was true, and I verify the rest with the coach. And then he told me he loved me. _

_At first, I was sure that I just didn't hear him right. But then he said it again, and that there had to be a reason I was still wearing the chain with his class ring. It was true, I hadn't been able to throw the ring away, because I did miss him. _

_When I told him as much, he asked me to give him one more chance. I told him that he'd have to jump through hoops before I could trust him again, but I agreed. _

_Holmes wasn't exactly overjoyed when he heard the news. He said that "that verminous scum" would only break my heart again. I told him that everyone deserves a second chance, but I doubt that he and Marty will ever get along. God, he's so protective of me sometimes, it's almost like . . . No, it couldn't be. Could it? _

_Whoops, gotta go. Dad needs me to help set the table before the Holmes' get here. _

_Happy Thanksgiving!_

_Love, Jane XOXO_

* * *

_**(A/N: There's a secret to shopping on Black Friday that allows one to avoid the crowds and still get exactly what you wanted. But I won't tell you. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	20. A Christmas with the Holmes'

_**(A/N: I have no excuses, I'm just lazy. That, and I've been busy with Taekwondo the last few weeks. Holmes' grandfather will be played in this chapter by Sean Connery. Please Read & Review.)**_

**Dedication:** I dedicate this chapter to chibiaries, who was kind enough to act as my sounding board for this chapter. Merry Christmas, chibiaries.

* * *

For several days and nights, snow had dumped upon Seattle like an arctic version of the tale of Noah's Ark. Finally, as the sun crept over the horizon on December 24th, it was a clear day. Clear, and cold.

On this particular day, Jane Watson was sitting on her bed, playing her guitar. Though not quite the musical virtuoso that her best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was, Jane's parents had nurtured her talent from a young age, and she'd often found herself inspired by the energy of city life.

_And I feel beautiful right now_

_For the first time in a long time_

_I'm letting my hair down_

_And life gets better every day_

_Though it seems so complicated_

_We're gonna work it out_

_Whatever comes our way_

"Nice song, baby," said her boyfriend, Marty Morstan, from the doorway.

"Hey, Marty," said Jane, "What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd come say goodbye before I go with my parents on our vacation to Tampa."

"Are you sure you have to go?" said Jane, putting her arms around his neck, "I wanted to spend Christmas with you."

"I'd have gotten out of it by now if I could," said Marty, "but you know my Dad." Unfortunately (at least, in Jane's eyes), this was true. Marty's father had proven on multiple occasions to be both stubborn AND boorish.

"Well, I guess that I'll find something to do around here," said Jane.

"Hey," said Marty, cupping her chin with his fingers, "no tears, now. We always have New Year's." He then kissed her and left.

Meanwhile, her mother, Sarah, was baking Christmas cookies. Jane peeked into the kitchen and saw that the bowl of cookie dough was unwatched. So, removing her shoes, she tiptoed past her mother, reached her finger toward the bowl, and . . .

"Don't even think about it, Jane," said Sarah without turning around.

"How do you do that?" asked Jane.

"Well, for one thing, I can smell your perfume," said Sarah, "and for another, you try this ever year."

Jane just grinned sheepishly and said, "Fair point. Well, I'll see you later, Mom. I have some Christmas presents to deliver."

"Fine, just be back in a few hours. We have to take you shopping for a new dress."

"Why?"

"The Holmes' Christmas party," said Sarah, "It's tonight, remember?"

Ah, yes. Sherlock had been grumbling about that for almost two days. Jane thought it was ironically funny that the son of a diplomat detested social situations.

"Okay, Mom," said Jane, heading out the door, "I'll be back in two hours, tops."

* * *

Having lived in Santa Rosa most of her life, Jane hadn't experienced that many white Christmases. But now, with all of Seattle beautiful and covered with a good ten to twelve of the white stuff, Jane decided that she liked them.

The uptown neighborhood of Lower Queen Anne was especially nice, with the snow having frozen into fresh powder overnight. It was also around there that Wiggins and several other Irregulars were known to practice their parkour.

Then, as if from nowhere, a voice shouted, "What's white, sticky, and falls from the sky?"

Jane smiled and shouted back, "The coming of the Lord!"

There was a flash of movement on a nearby fire escape, and the self-proclaimed "Baddest nigger to ever come outta Dublin" dropped down in front of her.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya, Jeannie," said Wiggins, shaking snow from his dreadlocks.

"Merry Christmas, Wiggins," said Jane, "Are you coming to the Holmes' Christmas party tonight?"

"Sure an' begorrah," answered Wiggins, flipping backward into a handstand, "Mrs. Hudson makes the finest soda bread this side o' Ulster."

"Who makes the finest soda bread on the OTHER side of Ulster?" asked Jane, playing Wiggins' straight man.

Wiggins smiled his broad, easy grin and said, "The Australians!"

"You need to work on your jokes," said Jane, "Here's your Christmas present." She handed him a brightly colored package tied with a green ribbon.

"Well thank you, Jeannie," said Wiggins, stuffing the package inside his coat, "It'll be the first one I open, tomorrow mornin'."

"By the way, Wiggins," asked Jane, "Have you seen Nick around?"

"I'll check," said Wiggins, leaning down toward a storm drain, "Yo, Nicky! Are ye there?!"

"Present," said a mellow voice from below. The grimy face attached to it peered upward.

"Hey, Nick," said Jane, leaning down to talk to him, "Merry Christmas."

"Back at you," said Nick. Nicholas Lee was a hodgepodge of racial ancestry, and originally came from Brooklyn. An orphan who suffered from a slight case of agoraphobia, Nick lived in the tunnels of the Seattle Underground and knew them better than anyone. This made him invaluable to the Baker Street Irregulars, as he could find a way into almost any building and could be anywhere in the city faster than anyone above ground.

"I assume you're coming to Holmes' Christmas party?" said Jane.

Nick shook his head and said, "Nope. I don't do so well in crowds. But make sure that Mrs. Holmes saves me some of them nice Rice-Krispie treats." His face disappeared and the faint sound of his feet told them that he had left.

"Strange fella," said Wiggins.

* * *

Meanwhile, back at the Holmes', Mrs. Hudson was hard at work preparing an enormous Christmas feast, Mr. Holmes was documenting the confirmed RSVPs, and Mrs. Holmes had just gotten off the phone to confirm a most unexpected guess.

"Who was that, darling?" asked Mr. Holmes.

"Tell Mrs. Hudson to set an extra plate this year," she said, "The Laird is coming, Frederick."

"What?" replied Frederick, "My father?"

Frederick's father, Angus Holmes, was a Scottish aristocrat and had been out of touch with his family for a number of years.

"He claims that he's had a change of heart," said Penelope, "and that he's become tired of spending the holidays alone."

"Oh, this is wonderful, sir," said Mrs. Hudson, coming out of the kitchen, "You and your father finally reconciling after all these years."

"It is, indeed, Mrs. Hudson," said Frederick, "But, what else could one expect, from the season of miracles?"

Elsewhere, Jane and Sherlock had gone for a walk through the city to watch the lights as they came on.

"I love Christmas," said Jane, "I love the lights, the presents, the eggnog . . ." She trailed off and started spinning around as she walked, sticking out her tongue to catch the snowflakes that had started to fall.

"Do pull yourself together, Watson," said Holmes mildly.

"You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch," said Jane.

"Its sacred name and origin aside," said Holmes, "I find Christmas to be rather materialistic, and even those that claim toward a 'true meaning' are frequently wrong. For, when one thinks of it, the beauty of the Christmas story lies not in the romantic notions one likes to imagine, but in the picture of our Lord willingly exchanging Heaven's glories for the putrid reality of an earthly stable. Do you not agree?"

"It's rather hard to disagree with you about anything, Holmes," said Jane, smiling in spite of herself, "You debate better than anyone I've ever met."

"Logic affords me a serenity experienced by few," said Holmes, "though the occasional indulgence of emotion is undeniably sweet."

SPLAT!

While Holmes had turned his back, Jane had taken it upon herself to roll a few snowballs, and had thrown one directly at Sherlock's head.

"Now is the winter of your discontent!" said Holmes, scooping up snow and returning fire. It went on for several minutes, with Holmes taking refuge behind some bushes while Jane set up a fort behind a park bench. In spite of himself, Holmes found himself truly enjoying acting like a child.

Finally, finding that Holmes had a much stronger throwing arm than she, Jane lifted her hands up and said, "I surrender!"

The two marched toward the center of the battlefield. What Sherlock didn't know, however, was that Jane had a snowball hidden behind her back.

"So, General Holmes," said Jane, "Can you say 'brain freeze?'"

BAM!

Jane found herself on the ground, ass in a snowbank, with a wad of fresh powder in her face.

"Brain freeze, Colonel Watson," said Holmes with a shit-eating grin.

Jane stood, brushed herself off, and said, "Good form, Holmes. There's hope for you yet."

Jane shivered, as the temperature began to lower with the setting sun. "Come, Watson," said Holmes, taking her hand, "Let us return to Baker Street and prepare for the evening's festivities."

He led her to the street, where an old-fashioned horse-drawn sleigh sat, with an old gentleman with a long beard sitting in the driver's seat.

"Baker street, please," said Jane as Holmes helped her up.

"_Non parlo Inglese_," said the man with a Swiss accent.

"_Prendali alla via del panettiere, per favore_," said Holmes, "_Ci sarà un'indennità per voi se arriviamo in meno di dieci minuti_."

"_Sì, Signore_," said the driver, who cracked the reins, "_Di andata_!"

The horse began to move forward at a fairly good trot. Jane used the blanket under the seat to cover hers and Sherlock's laps, while the driver passed them a thermos of hot chocolate.

"Mmm," said Jane, taking a sip, "this stuff is like liquid pudding. Holmes, I want to thank for today. It was the most fun I've had in a while."

"You are absolutely welcome, Watson," said Holmes, "I concur on the matter of fun. I haven't enjoyed a romp like this since I was a child."

The two continued to exchange small talk, while the driver smiled to himself and said, "_Ah, Amore_."

* * *

**The Holmes', Later**

Dinner had just been served. As usual, the Holmes' spared no expense, and the table was ladled with a roast goose, a rack of mutton, venison, suckling pig, cheeses, vegetables, wine, and Coca-Cola.

Among the guests were neighbors, old friends, several of Mycroft's clients, Lestrade, Wiggins, and the Watsons.

"Darling, didn't my father say he'd be here?" asked Frederick.

"Patience, my love," said Penelope, "He said that he'd most likely be late for dinner, but I've asked Mrs. Hudson to keep a plate warm for him."

"Why is your father so nervous?" said Jane to Mycroft.

Mycroft polished off an entire breast of goose and then said, "Father's history with our grandsire has been somewhat . . . problematic ever since he married our mother. He was of a Presbyterian background, you see, and Mother belongs to the Church of England. And speak of the devil, that must be he coming up the front steps."

There was a knock on the door three seconds later, which Mrs. Hudson rushed to answer. A tall, thin man entered and said, "Announcing the Much Honored Angus Holmes, Laird of Loch Lomond and all islands contained therein."

A slightly shorter, much older man entered dressed in traditional Highland garb. His steely eyes glinted with intelligence, and he moved with the grace of a man who had endured much and come away stronger for the experience.

"Father," said Frederick, rising to go and meet him.

"My son," said the Laird, his thick Scottish brogue giving his voice a warm, rich tone, "I cannot tell you how good it is to see you again."

A short time later, after all had eaten their fill, Sherlock took the opportunity to introduce Jane to his grandfather.

"The pleasure is all mine," said Angus, kissing Jane's hand.

"How do you do, Sir Angus?" said Jane with a short curtsey.

"I 'do' old," said Angus with a laugh, "My back hurts, my guts ache, and every morning I cough my chest apart for no apparent reason."

Jane laughed politely at the joke, though exactly how it was funny happened to be lost on her.

The party continued for several more hours, during which dessert was consumed, pleasant talk was made, and Wiggins' hair nearly caught on fire.

Jane was getting tired, and hoping that she's be able to go home soon, when Sherlock indicated for her to follow him up the stairs.

She did, and he led her to the balcony over his room, where a small table had been set up, with a plate of Christmas cake and two glasses of wine.

"I felt that a small toast was in order," said Holmes, sitting in one of the chairs.

Jane sat across from him and picked up her glass. "I've never drunk wine before," she said, rather sheepishly.

"Simply take the glass," said Holmes, "swirl it around a bit; inhale the scent; then, take a small sip to assess the flavor."

Jane swirled it and smelled the aerated wine. It made her think of lying on her back in an Austrian field, eating alpine strawberries.

After a few minutes of drinking wine and eating the cake, Jane started to feel a little tipsy.

"I think I've had enough," said Jane, speaking slowly and enunciating.

"I'll escort you home," said Sherlock, helping her to her feet.

"Hey, Holmes?" she said, stopping him.

"What's wrong, Watson?" he asked.

Jane simply pointed upward. "Mistletoe."

Before Holmes could reply, Jane wrapped her arms around his neck and planted her lips on his. Holmes tried to resist, but found himself relaxing into the kiss.

Jane pulled away 10 seconds later and said, "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

_**(A/N: Merry Christmas to all of you. And God bless us, everyone. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	21. Diary of Jane Watson Epilogue ACWTH

_**(A/N: Happy New Year to all! May 2010 be no worse to you than 2009 was. And remember: Don't make resolutions that you aren't absolutely going to keep. That's why I don't make them. Please Read & Review.)**_

**Disclaimer:** the lyrics to "Whatever Comes Our Way" are owned by the artist, Hope Partlow, not me or Jane.

* * *

_December 24__th__, 2009_

_Dear Diary, I honestly thought that today was going to stink. Marty went to go visit his aunt and uncle in Florida, Lucy and Ethel (you know, my friends from home ec.?) are skiing in the Poconos, and Holmes was probably going to be a real stick in the mud._

_But actually, today didn't turn out so bad. I'm working on a new song that I think could be my best yet. I was inspired by that sitcom "Living with Fran." I think I'll call it _Whatever Comes Our Way_. I've only got the chorus down, but the rest shouldn't take long. _

_Also, my mom made her famous triple-frosting sugar cookies. I was THIS close to sneaking a taste of the dough, but she caught me. Every year since I was five, she's caught me. _

_Let's see, what else? I gave Wiggins and Nick their Christmas presents. I gave Wiggins a book of politically incorrect jokes, because his have been getting worse and worse. He made an unfunny crack about Australian soda bread and something about snow, if I remember correctly. _

_It's actually kind of weird that Nick and Wiggins are best friends, because they're practically opposites. Wiggins is loud, robustly Irish, and a real people person. Nick is quiet, quietly whatever he is, and keeps to himself. Because of his agoraphobia, he lives in the Underground like a hermit. I've never understood why he's so happy to live in what is basically a glorified sewer, or how he manages to remain undiscovered by the tour groups. I gave him a flashlight and a Swiss army-knife._

_After that, I went shopping with my mom at Macy's. She wanted me to wear this pine-green monstrosity, but I finally talked her into letting me get this pretty red tank dress with little white polka dots. _

_And today, Holmes and I had his first snowball fight. Yep, his __**first snowball fight**__. Sometimes I wonder what he was like as a child, as smart as he is but so . . . emotionally distant. To this day, I've never seen him hug anyone. Not his brother, or his parents, or me. The happiest I've ever seen him was in those photo booth pictures with Irene Adler. I only met her once, but I could see what kind of person she was from the get-go; she was cold, calculating, and, if you'll pardon the language, a real bitch. _

_But, I digress. The party was actually a lot of fun. The food was so good, I probably ate way more than I should have. And I met Sherlock's grandfather, Angus Holmes. I curtseyed when I met him. I can't believe I actually curtseyed._

_Finding out that Holmes' grandfather was a salt of the earth Scotsman? Mildly surprising._

_Finding out that Holmes' grandfather was a wealthy landowner akin to a minor aristocrat? Very surprising. _

_Finding out that Holmes' grandfather was incredibly hot despite pushing 80? EXTREMELY surprising._

_But let's leave that for another time. Right now, it's time for the biggest news of all: Holmes kissed me!_

_Or, to be more accurate, I kissed HIM. _

_We were sitting out on his balcony, eating Christmas cake and drinking wine (I don't think I'll be telling my parents, though), and after we talked about . . . well, I honestly can't remember what we talked about, as I was a little buzzed. Something about that monograph Holmes was going to write on philology._

_So, anyway, when we got up to go back to the party, I noticed that we'd just walked under mistletoe. Buzzed as I was, I pointed it out to him. Before he could react, I just leaned forward and started sucking the lips off his face._

_God, his lips were SO soft. I wonder what brand of chapstick he uses, because they were REALLY soft. Soft like a mattress stuffed with Canadian goose down. Okay, now I'm getting redundant. Anyway, it was, maybe, the best kiss I've ever had. I enjoyed it so much, my foot actually popped up. I didn't think that even happened in real life! I guess I just trusted him to hold me up . . ._

_Anyway, we finished, he walked me home, we swapped presents, said goodnight, I spent half an hour puking due to an inability to metabolize alcohol due to my dad's Chinese heritage, and here I am._

_Sherlock gave me a leather-bound copy of Richard Burton's __The Arabian Nights__. He wrote on the inside of the cover "If you insist upon reading mere fairytales, do have the good sense to read something of actual literary value." It's actually kind of funny, because I got him a book, too. __Treaty on Cornish: The Celtic Dialect of Cornwall__. I thought that he might enjoy trying to find Chaldean roots in the Cornish language._

_Well, I'm tired and ready for bed. Maybe I'll have something new to write about around New Years'. Bye!_

_Love Jane XOXO_

_P.S. I remember now that Mycroft said something odd during dinner, almost like . . . there was a third Holmes brother. Funny, isn't it?_

* * *

Translation from last chapter:

"I don't speak English."

"Take us to Baker Street, please"

"There will be something extra for you if we arrive in less than 10 minutes."

"Yes sir"

"We go!"

"Ah, love."

* * *

_**(A/N: Again, Happy New Year! Well, belated. Please Review!)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	22. Paper Wings

_**(A/N: Yesterday was my 19**__**th**__** birthday! Wow, hard to believe that I've been working on this fic for about two years. Well, it won't be much longer. Please Read & Review.)**_

**Special Notice -** I dedicate this chapter to my good friend hermie-the-frog, who turned 18 the other day. Happy belated birthday, Alex!

* * *

Seattle had experienced a dramatic change in the weather, and the snow had given way to tepid rain. And it was on just such a day that Jane Watson was hanging out at her boyfriend's house, working on a new song.

"Marty?" she asked, "What do you think of these lyrics?"

"Fine," he said absently, laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling.

"Are you even listening to me?" asked Jane.

"Fine," said Marty again.

"Did I mention that I let Holmes' grandfather Greek-fuck me at that Christmas party?" she said.

"Good," said Marty, "I hope he sent you a basket of oranges or something."

"Ah-ha," said Jane, laying down next to him, "so you are in there somewhere. You've been acting weird ever since you came back from Florida. What's wrong, Marty?"

Marty just sighed and rolled over. "I don't know," he said, "Maybe it was seeing my second cousin getting ready to go to college."

"You mean the really tanned blonde one?" asked Jane.

"Yeah," said Marty, "I mean, she's pre-law and got 175 on the LSAT, and what do I do? I play football. I don't even throw the ball. I just run with it toward the endzone."

"Marty," said Jane with an admonitory tone, "Don't say that about yourself. Yes, you're more physical than cerebral, but you're not stupid. Who wrote that loopy play that helped you defeat the Polestar Panthers?"

"I did," said Marty.

"And who predicted the outcome of the last Super Bowl by analyzing the teams' stats?"

"I did," said Marty, "My dad bet the mortgage on who would win."

Jane found herself laughing at Marty's non sequitur, and was surprised when he leaned in to kiss her. They begin kissing passionately, Marty eventually climbing on top Jane and reaching his hand under her shirt.

"Mmm," said Jane, hers and Marty's lips still meshing, "Marty, slow down a little."

But Marty paid no need, sliding his hands beneath her bra to cup her breasts.

"I'm serious," snapped Jane. She used a wrestling takedown that Lestrade had taught her to break free and flip Marty onto the floor, pinning his arm behind him.

"Okay, okay!" he said, "Let go of my arm."

Jane released him and Marty sat up, rubbing his elbow. "What the hell was that about?" he said petulantly.

"I'm not comfortable with you touching my breasts," said Jane, "Especially not when you paw at them like you just got out of prison."

"What's the big deal?" said Marty, "It's not like I hurt you or anything."

"That's not the goddamn point!" yelled Jane.

"Okay, you were giving off the signals, and I just went with it," said Marty, "Besides, you were a wearing a bra made of black lace. That says something."

"Yeah, it says that it was the only bra I had that wasn't in the wash!" said Jane, "You know what? Forget it. I'm going home."

She marched toward the door, looked back at Marty and said, "You know something, Marty? You've been turning into a real ass, lately." She made sure to slam the door extra hard on the way out.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Jane found herself at a construction site in Tacoma, the perfect place for her to practice parkour. She took 15 minutes to warm up and stretch.

Jane quickly checked herself before starting; form-fitting clothing that would allow total freedom of movement? Check. Well-fitting sneakers? Check. Helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards? Check and check.

She took the earbuds for her iPod and stuck them in. Jane had found that music by Rise Against was good for doing parkour, as it both relaxed her and got her adrenaline pumping at the same time.

"Okay, Watson," she said to herself, hitting the play button on _Paper Wings_, "It's go time."

_One last thing I beg you please, just before you go  
I've watched you fly on paper wings halfway 'round the world  
until they burned up in the atmosphere and sent you spiraling down  
Landing somewhere far from here with no one else around  
To catch you falling down  
And I'm looking at you now_

Jane leaped into a sprint, heading directly toward a large pit in the center of the partially built room. Just as she got to the edge, she leapt upward and ran alongside the wall to the other side.

_And I can't tell if you're laughing  
Between each smile, there's a tear in your eye  
There's a train leaving town in an hour  
It's not waiting for you, and neither am I_

Jane spied a hole in the ceiling with a box on the floor nearby. Quickly, she cartwheeled forward and used the moment to spring herself upward so she could grip the edges of the second floor. She then she pulled herself up and continued.

_Swing for the fences son, he must have told you once  
That was a conversation you took nothing from  
SO RAISE YOUR GLASS *now* AND celebrate exactly what you've done  
Just put off another day of knowing where you're from  
You can catch up with yourself  
if you run . . ._

Jane ran up half a flight of stairs, and then climbed up the railing the rest of the way. At the top there was a guardrail, but Jane just grabbed the top bar and swung her body through the opening.

_And I can't tell if you're laughing  
Between each smile, there's a tear in your eye  
There's a train leaving town in an hour  
It's not waiting for you, and neither am I_

An open elevator shaft normally would be considered dangerous, but to a _traceuse_ like Jane, it was the perfect chance to practice her Wall Jump. Taking a deep breath, she jumped against the wall of the shaft, ricocheting to the other side and back again until she fell out of the opening to the second floor, rolling to disperse the momentum.

_Is this the life that you lead?  
Or the life that's led for you?  
Will you take the road that's been laid out before you?  
Will we cross paths somewhere else tonight?  
Somewhere else tonight . . .(Somewhere else . . .)_

Jane came upon a series of signs and vaulted over each of them, adding a 180-degree rotation to each of them to prevent an awkward landing.

She stopped for a minute to catch her breath and wipe the sweat from her forehead. Then, she decided it was time to try something new: Buildering.

_And I can't tell if you're laughing  
Between each smile, there's a tear in your eye  
There's a train leaving town in an hour  
It's not waiting for you, and neither am I_

Jumping out one of the open windows, Jane reached out her arm and swung around to hug the side of the building. Then, she began a slow ascent to the top, carefully searching for sturdy nooks and crannies to use as handholds.

_And I can't tell if you're laughing  
Between each smile, there's a tear in your eye  
There's a train leaving town in an hour  
It's not waiting for you, and neither am I_

Suddenly, Jane's hand slipped. A piece of mortar broke away, and Jane found herself falling. She instinctively curled into a catlike crouch to ease the impact.

She landed hard on a pile of garbage and bounced onto the sidewalk. She heard the crack of her helmet breaking, and then knew only darkness.

* * *

_Unggh,_ thought Jane as she slowly woke up, _where am I?_

"Jane?" said Marty, who was standing over her, "Oh, thank God you're awake."

"Marty?" she said, "Where am I?"

"The hospital," said a doctor who had just entered, "You took quite a spill, young lady. It was lucky you were wearing padding or you could've really gotten hurt. As it stands, you'll have a few bruises, a broken toe, and a nasty bump on your head."

"I was so afraid when your parents called me," said Marty, "Holmes and I haven't left your side since."

"Holmes?" said Jane, looking around, "where is he now?"

"He didn't really say," replied Marty with a shrug, "Hey, Jane, I'm really sorry about earlier. You're right, I was a major jerk, and I had no business touching you like that. How about we back up a little and try to start again?"

"Oh, Marty," said Jane, wrapping her arms around him, "I love you."

"I love you too, Baby," said Marty. He then handed her her guitar and said, "How about you play that song again? I promise I'll listen this time."

"Sure," said Jane, tuning the frets.

At this moment, Holmes, holding a bouquet of roses, appeared in the doorway, but stopped entering when he saw how intimate Jane and Marty were at the moment. He lingered long enough to hear Jane start singing.

_This is the place where I sit  
This is the part where I love you too much  
This is as hard as it gets  
Cause I'm getting tired of pretending I'm tough_

Holmes looked at the bouquet, and then let it fall to the floor. Slipping on his overcoat, he slowly walked out of the hospital, Jane's song becoming fainter and fainter.

'_Cause you don't see me  
And you don't need me  
And you don't love me  
The way I wish you would  
The way I know you could . . ._

* * *

_**(A/N: Since this is a wholly original story by me, some serious criticism would be appreciated. Please Review.)**_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	23. Diary of Jane Watson Epilogue TNAOSH

_**(A/N: Well, this is it. The last chapter. I know, there are few stories in "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" that I didn't do, but I just couldn't find a way to rewrite them into a modern context convincingly. But fear not; The New Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes will be out before you know it. Please Read & Review.)**_

* * *

_Dear Diary,_

_It's a week until Valentine's Day, and Marty's giving me one of the best presents I've ever had: He's taking me up to Crystal Mountain, a ski resort in the Cascade mountain range. I LOVE skiing, but something tells me that Marty and I are going to spend more than a little of our time around the fire._

_You know, Diary, I never really thought about . . . you know, __**IT**__, before, but look at the facts: Marty and I are going to Crystal Mountain for at least four days, completely unsupervised, and we're __sharing a room at a secluded hotel__. And let's be honest, it's not like I haven't . . . explored myself a little, but Marty and I haven't even gone to third base yet. _

_I guess what I'm wondering is, am I ready to deal with the physical and emotional ramifications of having a sexual relationship with Marty? I don't know. I know that I got on birth control for the benefit of shorter, lighter periods, but is it possible that my subconscious is telling me something?_

_Marty loves me. And I love him. I guess we'll just have to talk this out on the drive to Enumclaw (the closest town to the resort). I almost feel guilty that I'm not discussing this will my parents, but maybe it's better this way. I mean, ultimately it's MY decision, not theirs, right?_

_I'm going to go next door, see what Sherlock is up to. We haven't spoken since the day before yesterday._

_Love, Jane XOXO_

* * *

Jane saw that the door at 221B was open, and saw Holmes starring into the embers of a dying fire, the scent of jasmine incense in the air. Next to him was a book on anthropometry by Alphonse Bertillon.

"It is interesting," said Holmes, referring to the book, "Monsieur Bertillon was most thorough in his cataloguing of criminal types, but overall he was too prescriptive and made no allowances for deviations and anomalies. This weakness, in the end, undermined his system."

He then looked at Jane in an analytical fashion, as if all of her thoughts were laid bare.

"You understand what I refer to?" he said, gesturing toward a chair next to him.

"Yes," said Jane quietly, sitting down.

Holmes smiled the sort of smile that one might give a naughty child that had apologized for his transgressions and said, "I thought as much, but hoped against it."

"Hoped against what?" asked Jane with a frown.

"Romance," said Holmes, "Love. Affections of the heart. Whatever trite description you wish to use. You have fallen completely under the spell of Martin Morstan, and are in the process of taking on the characteristics of a sentimental mooncalf."

Jane held back a gasp at the cruelty of Holmes' words.

"I can see it in your eyes, in your manner, and in your voice," he continued, "Saccharine emotions are eating away at your reason."

"How dare you talk to me like that?!" shouted Jane, trembling with anger.

Holmes' only response was a wry, condescending smile. Jane then jumped up and grabbed Holmes by the front of his shirt and shook him.

"Whatever I do or do not feel for Marty is not a topic for you to sneer at, or about which to denigrate my feelings!"

Holmes was genuinely shocked by the vehemence of her attack, and he paled and gentled pulled away from her.

"I apologize, my dear Watson," he said quietly, "unreservedly. I had no idea that you would be so sensitive upon the subject. Please forgive my light-hearted remarks."

"'Light-hearted?' Your remarks were unfeeling and pompous and meant to hurt me!" snapped Jane releasing her grip. It was then that she realized that her anger was only partly fueled by Holmes; the rest came from her turmoil over her feelings toward Marty.

"I may be thoughtless, and I may at times be pompous," said Holmes soberly, "but I never say things intended to wound you, my friend. I hold you in too high a regard for that."

"I'm sorry too," said Jane, "I reacted much worse than I should have."

"Let us mend fences with a nightcap. Allow me."

Holmes went into the kitchen, and returned after a few minutes with two cups of thick Turkish coffee. The two clinked cups and smiled warily.

"I have sublimated all such emotions as love in order to pursue my detective career," said Holmes, "and I forget how powerful and overwhelming an emotion it can be. I assume that I was right and that you are in love with Morstan?"

"Yes, I am," said Jane.

"I feared as much. Now, Watson, before you grab me by the throat again, hear me out. The inevitable result of love is matrimony, which would in turn mean that I would lose a most companionable friend, my investigating associate, and the keeper of my casebook. I have never taken it upon myself to make friends. Indeed, our relationship fell out so easily that I cannot say I made any effort with you, either. It just came about naturally. And now you are going to up sticks and leave me for domestic bliss in the suburbs. Is it any wonder I said I feared as much?"

"Holmes," said Jane softly.

"If the truth be known, Watson," he continued, "I do not really approve of love. It is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement."

"I trust that my judgement could survive that ordeal," said Jane.

Holmes merely chuckled and said, "I fear it will."

"But you're getting ahead of yourself," said Jane, "Marty and I are WAY far away from even thinking about marriage, and we will be at least until I'm out of medical school."

"Ah," said Holmes, more happily than before, "so I will have around for a few years yet."

Jane nodded; "A few years at least."

"Ah," said Holmes, "well, that is of some comfort."

Jane looked carefully at him in the dying firelight. He looked content and at peace with himself. Jane envied that.

"I thought you once loved Irene Adler," said Jane.

"I believed that I did, at the time," said Holmes, "but in retrospect, I can see that I was wrong. What is the definition of love, I wonder? A palpitating heart and the sense of total self-sacrifice to another party? If so, no, I do not think that I have EVER loved. I love my parents, certainly. And I love Mycroft, but that is not the sort of thing you refer to, is it? Romantic love; closeness, passion, sex."

Jane was somewhat taken aback by this base definition, and Holmes deduced as much.

"What?" he said, "You do not think sex as part of love?"

"It's not that," said Jane, "but you use the word like it's just a commodity to add to the list in lieu of anything else."

"Well, to a person like me, it is," said Holmes, "Oh yes; Irene and I tried sex, once, as an experiment. I needed to know what it was like. The scientist in me overcame my reticence."

He stopped only to sip his coffee. "It wasn't for me. It encourages you to expose more of your inner feelings than is appropriate, to give too much of your own self away. I am too private a person to ever feel comfortable with that."

"But sex has to be arrived at through a loving relationship," said Jane.

Holmes laughed ruefully and said, "I am sorry to say, Watson, that I find that sentiment a nonsense. Ask any member of the oldest profession if they agree. It is a bodily function that is quite separate from the feelings of the heart. Man and woman can perform and enjoy this human activity, if it is to their taste, without any reparation to love."

"That's crude and despicable."

"Possibly, but true. As soon as I had experienced the full horrors of sexual intercourse, I determined to channel all my energies, subvert the sexual ones, into my work. How much more satisfying it is to realize that my mind is capable of governing my body and deterring any unwanted appetites."

Jane slammed her drink down and snapped, "How can you just reject all the feelings of the human heart?"

"Those are the words of a writer and romanticist," said Holmes, "There are numerous poor wretches in this city of ours who do not have the luxury to indulge in these finer feelings. They react to the animal instinct of procreation and satisfaction. Love is abstract and ethereal. A heady potion, no doubt, but give me logic every time."

Jane rose, completely lost for words and more angry than she could express. She marched out of the living room, but was met at the door by Mycroft.

"I heard what you two were speaking of," said Mycroft gently, "Oh, Jane, do not take what Sherlock says to heart. His words are no reflection on the nobility of your feelings or the genuine nature of your affection. They are the thoughts of a very odd and repressed individual who is so entrenched in his views of the world that he often forgets the hurt he may administer by expressing. You are the normal, hearty and well-adjusted one in your partnership; Sherlock is the cold, calculating . . . and damaged other half. Do try to forgive him."

"Goodnight, Mycroft," said Jane. She then walked past him and returned to her house, an even greater whirlpool of emotion and uncertainty than when she left.

* * *

_**(A/N: Well, hope you enjoyed the ride. Don't worry. It won't take me too long to get the next one started. Please Review.)**_

FINIS


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